‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘I got fed up at home. I thought maybe we could do something.’
He looked sideways at me. There was a fine film of sweat on his face. ‘The
sooner you get another job, babe, the better.’
‘It’s all of twenty-four hours since I lost the last one. Am I allowed to just be
bit miserable and floppy? You know, just for today?’
‘But you’ve got to look at the positive side. You knew you couldn’t stay at
that place forever. You want to move upwards, onwards.’ Patrick had been
named Stortfold Young Entrepreneur of the Year two years previously, and had
not yet quite recovered from the honour. He had since acquired a business
partner, Ginger Pete, offering personal training to clients over a 40-mile area,
and two liveried vans on the HP. He also had a whiteboard in his office, on
which he liked to scrawl his projected turnover with thick black markers,
working and reworking the figures until they met with his satisfaction. I was
never entirely sure that they bore any resemblance to real life.
‘Being made redundant can change people’s lives, Lou.’ He glanced at his
watch, checking his lap time. ‘What do you want to do? You could retrain. I’m
sure they do a grant for people like you.’
‘People like me?’
‘People looking for a new opportunity. What do you want to be? You could be
a beautician. You’re pretty enough.’ He nudged me as we ran, as if I should be
grateful for the compliment.
‘You know my beauty routine. Soap, water, the odd paper bag.’
Patrick was beginning to look exasperated.
I was starting to lag behind. I hate running. I hated him for not slowing down.
‘Look ... shop assistant. Secretary. Estate agent. I don’t know ... there must
be something you want to do.’
But there wasn’t. I had liked it in the cafe. I liked knowing everything there
was to know about The Buttered Bun, and hearing about the lives of the people
who came through it. I had felt comfortable there.
‘You can’t mope around, babe. Got to get over it. All the best entrepreneurs
fight their way back from rock bottom. Jeffrey Archer did it. So did Richard
Branson.’ He tapped my arm, trying to get me to keep up.
‘I doubt if Jeffrey Archer ever got made redundant from toasting teacakes.’ I
was out of breath. And I was wearing the wrong bra. I slowed, dropped my
hands down on to my knees.
He turned, running backwards, his voice carrying on the still, cold air. ‘But if
he had ... I’m just saying. Sleep on it, put on a smart suit and head down to the
Job Centre. Or I’ll train you up to work with me, if you like. You know there’s
money in it. And don’t worry about the holiday. I’ll pay.’
I smiled at him.
He blew a kiss and his voice echoed across the empty stadium. ‘You can pay
me back when you’re back on your feet.’
I made my first claim for Jobseeker’s Allowance. I attended a 45-minute
interview, and a group interview, where I sat with a group of twenty or so
mismatched men and women, half of whom wore the same slightly stunned
expression I suspected I did, and the other half the blank, uninterested faces of
people who had been here too many times before. I wore what my Dad deemed
my ‘civilian’ clothes.
As a result of these efforts, I had endured a brief stint filling in on a night shift
at a chicken processing factory (it had given me nightmares for weeks), and two
days at a training session as a Home Energy Adviser. I had realized pretty
quickly that I was essentially being instructed to befuddle old people into
switching energy suppliers, and told Syed, my personal ‘adviser’ that I couldn’t
do it. He had been insistent that I continue, so I had listed some of the practices
that they had asked me to employ, at which point he had gone a bit quiet and
suggested we (it was always ‘we’ even though it was pretty obvious that one of
us had a job) try something else.
I did two weeks at a fast food chain. The hours were okay, I could cope with
the fact that the uniform made my hair static, but I found it impossible to stick to
the ‘appropriate responses’ script, with its ‘How can I help you today?’ and its
‘Would you like large fries with that?’ I had been let go after one of the doughnut
girls caught me debating the varying merits of the free toys with a four-year-old.
What can I say? She was a smart four-year-old. I also thought the Sleeping
Beauties were sappy.
Now I sat at my fourth interview as Syed scanned through the touch screen for
further employment ‘opportunities’. Even Syed, who wore the grimly cheerful
demeanour of someone who had shoehorned the most unlikely candidates into a
job, was starting to sound a little weary.
‘Um ... Have you ever considered joining the entertainment industry?’
‘What, as in pantomime dame?’
‘Actually, no. But there is an opening for a pole dancer. Several, in fact.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘Please tell me you are kidding.’
‘It’s thirty hours a week on a self-employed basis. I believe the tips are good.’
‘Please, please tell me you have not just advised me to get a job that involves
parading around in front of strangers in my underwear.’
‘You said you were good with people. And you seem to
like ... theatrical... clothing.’ He glanced at my tights, which were green and
glittery. I had thought they would cheer me up. Thomas had hummed the theme
tune from The Little Mermaid at me for almost the whole of breakfast.
Syed tapped something into his keyboard. ‘How about “adult chat line
supervisor”?’
I stared at him.
He shrugged. 'You said you liked talking to people.’
‘No. And no to semi-nude bar staff. Or masseuse. Or webcam operator. Come
on, Syed. There must be something I can do that wouldn’t actually give my dad a
heart attack.’
This appeared to stump him. ‘There’s not much left outside flexi-hour retail
opportunities.’
‘Night-time shelf stacking?’ I had been here enough times now to speak their
language.
‘There’s a waiting list. Parents tend to go for it, because it suits the school
hours,’ he said apologetically. He studied the screen again. ‘So we’re really left
with care assistant.’
‘Wiping old people’s bottoms.’
‘I’m afraid, Louisa, you’re not qualified for much else. If you wanted to
retrain, I’d be happy to point you in the right direction. There are plenty of
courses at the adult education centre.’
‘But we’ve been through this, Syed. If I do that, I lose my Jobseeker money,
right?’
‘If you’re not available for work, yes.’
We sat there in silence for a moment. I gazed at the doors, where two burly
security men stood. I wondered if they had got the job through the Job Centre.
‘I’m not good with old people, Syed. My granddad lives at home since he had
his strokes, and I can’t cope with him.’
‘Ah. So you have some experience of caring.’
‘Not really. My mum does everything for him.’
‘Would your mum like a job?’
‘Funny.’
‘I’m not being funny.’
‘And leave me looking after my granddad? No thanks. That’s from him, as
well as me, by the way. Haven’t you got anything in any cafes?’
‘I don’t think there are enough cafes left to guarantee you employment,
Louisa. We could try Kentucky Fried Chicken. You might get on better there.’
‘Because I’d get so much more out of offering a Bargain Bucket than a
Chicken McNugget? I don’t think so.’
‘Well, then perhaps we’ll have to look further afield.’
There are only four buses to and from our town. You know that. And I know
you said I should look into the tourist bus, but I rang the station and it stops at
5pm. Plus it’s twice as expensive as the normal bus.’
Syed sat back in his seat. ‘At this point in proceedings, Louisa, I really need to
make the point that as a fit and able person, in order to continue qualifying for
your allowance, you need
to show that I’m trying to get a job. I know.’
How could I explain to this man how much I wanted to work? Did he have the
slightest idea how much I missed my old job? Unemployment had been a
concept, something droningly referred to on the news in relation to shipyards or
car factories. I had never considered that you might miss a job like you missed a
limb - a constant, reflexive thing. I hadn’t thought that as well as the obvious
fears about money, and your future, losing your job would make you feel
inadequate, and a bit useless. That it would be harder to get up in the morning
than when you were rudely shocked into consciousness by the alarm. That you
might miss the people you worked with, no matter how little you had in common
with them. Or even that you might find yourself searching for familiar faces as
you walked the high street. The first time I had seen the Dandelion Lady
wandering past the shops, looking as aimless as I felt, I had fought the urge to go
and give her a hug.
Syed’s voice broke into my reverie. ‘Aha. Now this might work.’
I tried to peer round at the screen.
‘Just come in. This very minute. Care assistant position.’
‘I told you I was no good with -’
‘It’s not old people. It’s a ... a private position. To help in someone’s house,
and the address is less than two miles from your home. “Care and
companionship for a disabled man.” Can you drive?’
‘Yes. But would I have to wipe his -’
‘No bottom wiping required, as far as I can tell.’ He scanned the screen. ‘He’s
a ... a quadriplegic. He needs someone in the daylight hours to help feed and
assist. Often in these jobs it’s a case of being there when they want to go out
somewhere, helping with basic stuff that they can’t do themselves. Oh. It’s good
money. Quite a lot more than the minimum wage.’
‘That’s probably because it involves bottom wiping.’
‘I’ll ring them to confirm the absence of bottom wiping. But if that’s the case,
you’ll go along for the interview?’
He said it like it was a question.
But we both knew the answer.
I sighed, and gathered up my bag ready for the trip home.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said my father. ‘Can you imagine? If it wasn’t punishment enough
ending up in a ruddy wheelchair, then you get our Lou turning up to keep you
company.’
‘Bernard!’ my mother scolded.
Behind me, Granddad was laughing into his mug of tea.
Sunday, June 30, 2019
me before you, 01.1
1
2009
There are 158 footsteps between the bus stop and home, but it can stretch to 180
if you aren’t in a hurry, like maybe if you’re wearing platform shoes. Or shoes
you bought from a charity shop that have butterflies on the toes but never quite
grip the heel at the back, thereby explaining why they were a knock-down £1.99.
I turned the corner into our street (68 steps), and could just see the house - a
four-bedroomed semi in a row of other three- and four-bedroomed semis. Dad’s
car was outside, which meant he had not yet left for work.
Behind me, the sun was setting behind Stortfold Castle, its dark shadow
sliding down the hill like melting wax to overtake me. When I was a child we
used to make our elongated shadows have gun battles, our street the O. K.
Corral. On a different sort of day, I could have told you all the things that had
happened to me on this route: where Dad taught me to ride a bike without
stabilizers; where Mrs Doherty with the lopsided wig used to make us Welsh
cakes; where Treena stuck her hand into a hedge when she was eleven and
disturbed a wasp’s nest and we ran screaming all the way back to the castle.
Thomas’s tricycle was upturned on the path and, closing the gate behind me, I
dragged it under the porch and opened the door. The warmth hit me with the
force of an air bag; Mum is a martyr to the cold and keeps the heating on all year
round. Dad is always opening windows, complaining that she’d bankrupt the lot
of us. He says our heating bills are larger than the GDP of a small African
country.
That you, love?’
‘Yup.’ I hung my jacket on the peg, where it fought for space amongst the
others.
‘Which you? Lou? Treena?’
‘Lou?
I peered round the living-room door. Dad was face down on the sofa, his arm
thrust deep between the cushions, as if they had swallowed his limb whole.
Thomas, my five-year-old nephew, was on his haunches, watching him intently.
‘Lego.’ Dad turned his face towards me, puce from exertion. ‘Why they have
to make the damned pieces so small I don’t know. Have you seen Obi-Wan
Kenobi’s left arm?’
‘It was on top of the DVD player. I think he swapped Obi’s arms with Indiana
Jones’s.’
‘Well, apparently now Obi can’t possibly have beige arms. We have to have
the black arms.’
‘I wouldn’t worry. Doesn’t Darth Vader chop his arm off in episode two?’ I
pointed at my cheek so that Thomas would kiss it. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Upstairs. How about that? A two-pound piece!’
I looked up, just able to hear the familiar creak of the ironing board. Josie
Clark, my mother, never sat down. It was a point of honour. She had been known
to stand on an outside ladder painting the windows, occasionally pausing to
wave, while the rest of us ate a roast dinner.
‘Will you have a go at finding this bloody arm for me? He’s had me looking
for half an hour and I’ve got to get ready for work.’
‘Are you on nights?’
‘Yeah. It’s half five.’
I glanced at the clock. ‘Actually, it’s half four.’
He extracted his arm from the cushions and squinted at his watch. ‘Then what
are you doing home so early?’
I shook my head vaguely, as if I might have misunderstood the question, and
walked into the kitchen.
Granddad was sitting in his chair by the kitchen window, studying a sudoku.
The health visitor had told us it would be good for his concentration, help his
focus after the strokes. I suspected I was the only one to notice he simply filled
out all the boxes with whatever number came to mind.
‘Hey, Granddad.’
He looked up and smiled.
‘You want a cup of tea?’
He shook his head, and partially opened his mouth.
‘Cold drink?’
He nodded.
I opened the fridge door. ‘There’s no apple juice.’ Apple juice, I remembered
now, was too expensive. ‘Ribena?’
He shook his head.
‘Water?’
He nodded, murmured something that could have been a thank you as I
handed him the glass.
My mother walked into the room, bearing a huge basket of neatly folded
laundry. ‘Are these yours?’ She brandished a pair of socks.
‘Treena’s, I think.’
‘I thought so. Odd colour. I think they must have got in with Daddy’s plum
pyjamas. You’re back early. Are you going somewhere?’
‘No.’ I filled a glass with tap water and drank it.
‘Is Patrick coming round later? He rang here earlier. Did you have your
mobile off?’
‘Mm.’
‘He said he’s after booking your holiday. Your father says he saw something
on the television about it. Where is it you liked? Ipsos? Kalypsos?’
‘Skiathos.’
‘That’s the one. You want to check your hotel very carefully. Do it on the
internet. He and Daddy watched something on the news at lunchtime.
Apparently they’re building sites, half of those budget deals, and you wouldn’t
know until you got there. Daddy, would you like a cup of tea? Did Lou not offer
you one?’ She put the kettle on then glanced up at me. It’s possible she had
finally noticed I wasn’t saying anything. ‘Are you all right, love? You look
awfully pale.’
She reached out a hand and felt my forehead, as if I were much younger than
twenty-six.
‘I don’t think we’re going on holiday.’
My mother’s hand stilled. Her gaze had that X-ray thing that it had held since
I was a kid. ‘Are you and Pat having some problems?’
‘Mum, I -’
‘I’m not trying to interfere. It’s just, you’ve been together an awful long time.
It’s only natural if things get a bit sticky every now and then. I mean, me and
your father we -’
‘I lost my job.’
My voice cut into the silence. The words hung there, searing themselves on
the little room long after the sound had died away.
‘You what?’
‘Frank’s shutting down the cafe. From tomorrow.’ I held out a hand with the
slightly damp envelope I had gripped in shock the entire journey home. All 180
steps from the bus stop. ‘He’s given me my three months’ money.’
The day had started like any other day. Everyone I knew hated Monday
mornings, but I never minded them. I liked arriving early at The Buttered Bun,
firing up the huge tea urn in the corner, bringing in the crates of milk and bread
from the backyard and chatting to Frank as we prepared to open.
I liked the fuggy bacon-scented warmth of the cafe, the little bursts of cool air
as the door opened and closed, the low murmur of conversation and, when quiet,
Frank’s radio singing tinnily to itself in the corner. It wasn’t a fashionable place
- its walls were covered in scenes from the castle up on the hill, the tables still
sported Formica tops, and the menu hadn’t altered since I started, apart from a
few changes to the chocolate bar selection and the addition of chocolate
brownies and muffins to the iced bun tray.
But most of all I liked the customers. I liked Kev and Angelo, the plumbers,
who came in most mornings and teased Frank about where his meat might have
come from. I liked the Dandelion Lady, nicknamed for her shock of white hair,
who ate one egg and chips from Monday to Thursday and sat reading the
complimentary newspapers and drinking her way through two cups of tea. I
always made an effort to chat with her. I suspected it might be the only
conversation the old woman got all day.
I liked the tourists, who stopped on their walk up and down from the castle,
the shrieking schoolchildren, who stopped by after school, the regulars from the
offices across the road, and Nina and Cherie, the hairdressers, who knew the
calorie count of every single item The Buttered Bun had to offer. Even the
annoying customers, like the red-haired woman who ran the toyshop and
disputed her change at least once a week, didn’t trouble me.
I watched relationships begin and end across those tables, children transferred
between divorcees, the guilty relief of those parents who couldn’t face cooking,
and the secret pleasure of pensioners at a fried breakfast. All human life came
through, and most of them shared a few words with me, trading jokes or
comments over the mugs of steaming tea. Dad always said he never knew what
was going to come out of my mouth next, but in the cafe it didn’t matter.
Frank liked me. He was quiet by nature, and said having me there kept the
place lively. It was a bit like being a barmaid, but without the hassle of drunks.
And then that afternoon, after the lunchtime rush had ended, and with the
place briefly empty, Frank, wiping his hands on his apron, had come out from
behind the hotplate and turned the little Closed sign to face the street.
‘Now now, Frank, I’ve told you before. Extras are not included in the
minimum wage.’ Frank was, as Dad put it, as queer as a blue gnu. I looked up.
He wasn’t smiling.
‘Uh-oh. I didn’t put salt in the sugar cellars again, did I?’
He was twisting a tea towel between his two hands and looked more
uncomfortable than I had ever seen him. I wondered, briefly, whether someone
had complained about me. And then he motioned to me to sit down.
‘Sorry, Fouisa,’ he said, after he had told me. ‘But I’m going back to
Australia. My Dad’s not too good, and it looks like the castle is definitely going
to start doing its own refreshments. The writing’s on the wall.’
I think I sat there with my mouth actually hanging open. And then Frank had
handed me the envelope, and answered my next question before it left my lips. ‘I
know we never had, you know, a formal contract or anything, but I wanted to
look after you. There’s three months’ money in there. We close tomorrow.’
‘Three months!’ Dad exploded, as my mother thrust a cup of sweet tea into my
hands. ‘Well, that’s big of him, given she’s worked like a ruddy Trojan in that
place for the last six years.’
‘Bernard.’ Mum shot him a warning look, nodding towards Thomas. My
parents minded him after school every day until Treena finished work.
‘What the hell is she supposed to do now? He could have given her more than
a day’s bloody notice.’
‘Well ... she’ll just have to get another job.’
‘There are no bloody jobs, Josie. You know that as well as I do. We’re in the
middle of a bloody recession.’
Mum shut her eyes for a moment, as if composing herself before she spoke.
‘She’s a bright girl. She’ll find herself something. She’s got a solid employment
record, hasn’t she? Frank will give her a good reference.’
‘Oh, fecking marvellous ... “Louisa Clark is very good at buttering toast, and
a dab hand with the old teapot.’”
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.’
‘I’m just saying.’
I knew the real reason for Dad’s anxiety. They relied on my wages. Treena
earned next to nothing at the flower shop. Mum couldn’t work, as she had to
look after Granddad, and Granddad’s pension amounted to almost nothing. Dad
lived in a constant state of anxiety about his job at the furniture factory. His boss
had been muttering about possible redundancies for months. There were
murmurings at home about debts and the juggling of credit cards. Dad had had
his car written off by an uninsured driver two years previously, and somehow
this had been enough for the whole teetering edifice that was my parents’
finances to finally collapse. My modest wages had been a little bedrock of
housekeeping money, enough to help see the family through from week to week.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She can head down to the Job Centre
tomorrow and see what’s on offer. She’s got enough to get by for now.’ They
spoke as if I weren’t there. ‘And she’s smart. You’re smart, aren’t you, love?
Perhaps she could do a typing course. Go into office work.’
I sat there, as my parents discussed what other jobs my limited qualifications
might entitle me to. Factory work, machinist, roll butterer. For the first time that
afternoon I wanted to cry. Thomas watched me with big, round eyes, and silently
handed me half a soggy biscuit.
‘Thanks, Tommo,’ I mouthed silently, and ate it.
He was down at the athletics club, as I had known he would be. Mondays to
Thursdays, regular as a station timetable, Patrick was there in the gym or
running in circles around the floodlit track. I made my way down the steps,
hugging myself against the cold, and walked slowly out on to the track, waving
as he came close enough to see who it was.
‘Run with me/ he puffed, as he got closer. His breath came in pale clouds.
Tve got four laps to go/
I hesitated just a moment, and then began to run alongside him. It was the
only way I was going to get any kind of conversation out of him. I was wearing
my pink trainers with the turquoise laces, the only shoes I could possibly run in.
I had spent the day at home, trying to be useful. I’m guessing it was about an
hour before I started to get under my mother’s feet. Mum and Granddad had
their routines, and having me there interrupted them. Dad was asleep, as he was
on nights this month, and not to be disturbed. I tidied my room, then sat and
watched television with the sound down and when I remembered, periodically,
why I was at home in the middle of the day I had felt an actual brief pain in my
chest.
2009
There are 158 footsteps between the bus stop and home, but it can stretch to 180
if you aren’t in a hurry, like maybe if you’re wearing platform shoes. Or shoes
you bought from a charity shop that have butterflies on the toes but never quite
grip the heel at the back, thereby explaining why they were a knock-down £1.99.
I turned the corner into our street (68 steps), and could just see the house - a
four-bedroomed semi in a row of other three- and four-bedroomed semis. Dad’s
car was outside, which meant he had not yet left for work.
Behind me, the sun was setting behind Stortfold Castle, its dark shadow
sliding down the hill like melting wax to overtake me. When I was a child we
used to make our elongated shadows have gun battles, our street the O. K.
Corral. On a different sort of day, I could have told you all the things that had
happened to me on this route: where Dad taught me to ride a bike without
stabilizers; where Mrs Doherty with the lopsided wig used to make us Welsh
cakes; where Treena stuck her hand into a hedge when she was eleven and
disturbed a wasp’s nest and we ran screaming all the way back to the castle.
Thomas’s tricycle was upturned on the path and, closing the gate behind me, I
dragged it under the porch and opened the door. The warmth hit me with the
force of an air bag; Mum is a martyr to the cold and keeps the heating on all year
round. Dad is always opening windows, complaining that she’d bankrupt the lot
of us. He says our heating bills are larger than the GDP of a small African
country.
That you, love?’
‘Yup.’ I hung my jacket on the peg, where it fought for space amongst the
others.
‘Which you? Lou? Treena?’
‘Lou?
I peered round the living-room door. Dad was face down on the sofa, his arm
thrust deep between the cushions, as if they had swallowed his limb whole.
Thomas, my five-year-old nephew, was on his haunches, watching him intently.
‘Lego.’ Dad turned his face towards me, puce from exertion. ‘Why they have
to make the damned pieces so small I don’t know. Have you seen Obi-Wan
Kenobi’s left arm?’
‘It was on top of the DVD player. I think he swapped Obi’s arms with Indiana
Jones’s.’
‘Well, apparently now Obi can’t possibly have beige arms. We have to have
the black arms.’
‘I wouldn’t worry. Doesn’t Darth Vader chop his arm off in episode two?’ I
pointed at my cheek so that Thomas would kiss it. ‘Where’s Mum?’
‘Upstairs. How about that? A two-pound piece!’
I looked up, just able to hear the familiar creak of the ironing board. Josie
Clark, my mother, never sat down. It was a point of honour. She had been known
to stand on an outside ladder painting the windows, occasionally pausing to
wave, while the rest of us ate a roast dinner.
‘Will you have a go at finding this bloody arm for me? He’s had me looking
for half an hour and I’ve got to get ready for work.’
‘Are you on nights?’
‘Yeah. It’s half five.’
I glanced at the clock. ‘Actually, it’s half four.’
He extracted his arm from the cushions and squinted at his watch. ‘Then what
are you doing home so early?’
I shook my head vaguely, as if I might have misunderstood the question, and
walked into the kitchen.
Granddad was sitting in his chair by the kitchen window, studying a sudoku.
The health visitor had told us it would be good for his concentration, help his
focus after the strokes. I suspected I was the only one to notice he simply filled
out all the boxes with whatever number came to mind.
‘Hey, Granddad.’
He looked up and smiled.
‘You want a cup of tea?’
He shook his head, and partially opened his mouth.
‘Cold drink?’
He nodded.
I opened the fridge door. ‘There’s no apple juice.’ Apple juice, I remembered
now, was too expensive. ‘Ribena?’
He shook his head.
‘Water?’
He nodded, murmured something that could have been a thank you as I
handed him the glass.
My mother walked into the room, bearing a huge basket of neatly folded
laundry. ‘Are these yours?’ She brandished a pair of socks.
‘Treena’s, I think.’
‘I thought so. Odd colour. I think they must have got in with Daddy’s plum
pyjamas. You’re back early. Are you going somewhere?’
‘No.’ I filled a glass with tap water and drank it.
‘Is Patrick coming round later? He rang here earlier. Did you have your
mobile off?’
‘Mm.’
‘He said he’s after booking your holiday. Your father says he saw something
on the television about it. Where is it you liked? Ipsos? Kalypsos?’
‘Skiathos.’
‘That’s the one. You want to check your hotel very carefully. Do it on the
internet. He and Daddy watched something on the news at lunchtime.
Apparently they’re building sites, half of those budget deals, and you wouldn’t
know until you got there. Daddy, would you like a cup of tea? Did Lou not offer
you one?’ She put the kettle on then glanced up at me. It’s possible she had
finally noticed I wasn’t saying anything. ‘Are you all right, love? You look
awfully pale.’
She reached out a hand and felt my forehead, as if I were much younger than
twenty-six.
‘I don’t think we’re going on holiday.’
My mother’s hand stilled. Her gaze had that X-ray thing that it had held since
I was a kid. ‘Are you and Pat having some problems?’
‘Mum, I -’
‘I’m not trying to interfere. It’s just, you’ve been together an awful long time.
It’s only natural if things get a bit sticky every now and then. I mean, me and
your father we -’
‘I lost my job.’
My voice cut into the silence. The words hung there, searing themselves on
the little room long after the sound had died away.
‘You what?’
‘Frank’s shutting down the cafe. From tomorrow.’ I held out a hand with the
slightly damp envelope I had gripped in shock the entire journey home. All 180
steps from the bus stop. ‘He’s given me my three months’ money.’
The day had started like any other day. Everyone I knew hated Monday
mornings, but I never minded them. I liked arriving early at The Buttered Bun,
firing up the huge tea urn in the corner, bringing in the crates of milk and bread
from the backyard and chatting to Frank as we prepared to open.
I liked the fuggy bacon-scented warmth of the cafe, the little bursts of cool air
as the door opened and closed, the low murmur of conversation and, when quiet,
Frank’s radio singing tinnily to itself in the corner. It wasn’t a fashionable place
- its walls were covered in scenes from the castle up on the hill, the tables still
sported Formica tops, and the menu hadn’t altered since I started, apart from a
few changes to the chocolate bar selection and the addition of chocolate
brownies and muffins to the iced bun tray.
But most of all I liked the customers. I liked Kev and Angelo, the plumbers,
who came in most mornings and teased Frank about where his meat might have
come from. I liked the Dandelion Lady, nicknamed for her shock of white hair,
who ate one egg and chips from Monday to Thursday and sat reading the
complimentary newspapers and drinking her way through two cups of tea. I
always made an effort to chat with her. I suspected it might be the only
conversation the old woman got all day.
I liked the tourists, who stopped on their walk up and down from the castle,
the shrieking schoolchildren, who stopped by after school, the regulars from the
offices across the road, and Nina and Cherie, the hairdressers, who knew the
calorie count of every single item The Buttered Bun had to offer. Even the
annoying customers, like the red-haired woman who ran the toyshop and
disputed her change at least once a week, didn’t trouble me.
I watched relationships begin and end across those tables, children transferred
between divorcees, the guilty relief of those parents who couldn’t face cooking,
and the secret pleasure of pensioners at a fried breakfast. All human life came
through, and most of them shared a few words with me, trading jokes or
comments over the mugs of steaming tea. Dad always said he never knew what
was going to come out of my mouth next, but in the cafe it didn’t matter.
Frank liked me. He was quiet by nature, and said having me there kept the
place lively. It was a bit like being a barmaid, but without the hassle of drunks.
And then that afternoon, after the lunchtime rush had ended, and with the
place briefly empty, Frank, wiping his hands on his apron, had come out from
behind the hotplate and turned the little Closed sign to face the street.
‘Now now, Frank, I’ve told you before. Extras are not included in the
minimum wage.’ Frank was, as Dad put it, as queer as a blue gnu. I looked up.
He wasn’t smiling.
‘Uh-oh. I didn’t put salt in the sugar cellars again, did I?’
He was twisting a tea towel between his two hands and looked more
uncomfortable than I had ever seen him. I wondered, briefly, whether someone
had complained about me. And then he motioned to me to sit down.
‘Sorry, Fouisa,’ he said, after he had told me. ‘But I’m going back to
Australia. My Dad’s not too good, and it looks like the castle is definitely going
to start doing its own refreshments. The writing’s on the wall.’
I think I sat there with my mouth actually hanging open. And then Frank had
handed me the envelope, and answered my next question before it left my lips. ‘I
know we never had, you know, a formal contract or anything, but I wanted to
look after you. There’s three months’ money in there. We close tomorrow.’
‘Three months!’ Dad exploded, as my mother thrust a cup of sweet tea into my
hands. ‘Well, that’s big of him, given she’s worked like a ruddy Trojan in that
place for the last six years.’
‘Bernard.’ Mum shot him a warning look, nodding towards Thomas. My
parents minded him after school every day until Treena finished work.
‘What the hell is she supposed to do now? He could have given her more than
a day’s bloody notice.’
‘Well ... she’ll just have to get another job.’
‘There are no bloody jobs, Josie. You know that as well as I do. We’re in the
middle of a bloody recession.’
Mum shut her eyes for a moment, as if composing herself before she spoke.
‘She’s a bright girl. She’ll find herself something. She’s got a solid employment
record, hasn’t she? Frank will give her a good reference.’
‘Oh, fecking marvellous ... “Louisa Clark is very good at buttering toast, and
a dab hand with the old teapot.’”
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.’
‘I’m just saying.’
I knew the real reason for Dad’s anxiety. They relied on my wages. Treena
earned next to nothing at the flower shop. Mum couldn’t work, as she had to
look after Granddad, and Granddad’s pension amounted to almost nothing. Dad
lived in a constant state of anxiety about his job at the furniture factory. His boss
had been muttering about possible redundancies for months. There were
murmurings at home about debts and the juggling of credit cards. Dad had had
his car written off by an uninsured driver two years previously, and somehow
this had been enough for the whole teetering edifice that was my parents’
finances to finally collapse. My modest wages had been a little bedrock of
housekeeping money, enough to help see the family through from week to week.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She can head down to the Job Centre
tomorrow and see what’s on offer. She’s got enough to get by for now.’ They
spoke as if I weren’t there. ‘And she’s smart. You’re smart, aren’t you, love?
Perhaps she could do a typing course. Go into office work.’
I sat there, as my parents discussed what other jobs my limited qualifications
might entitle me to. Factory work, machinist, roll butterer. For the first time that
afternoon I wanted to cry. Thomas watched me with big, round eyes, and silently
handed me half a soggy biscuit.
‘Thanks, Tommo,’ I mouthed silently, and ate it.
He was down at the athletics club, as I had known he would be. Mondays to
Thursdays, regular as a station timetable, Patrick was there in the gym or
running in circles around the floodlit track. I made my way down the steps,
hugging myself against the cold, and walked slowly out on to the track, waving
as he came close enough to see who it was.
‘Run with me/ he puffed, as he got closer. His breath came in pale clouds.
Tve got four laps to go/
I hesitated just a moment, and then began to run alongside him. It was the
only way I was going to get any kind of conversation out of him. I was wearing
my pink trainers with the turquoise laces, the only shoes I could possibly run in.
I had spent the day at home, trying to be useful. I’m guessing it was about an
hour before I started to get under my mother’s feet. Mum and Granddad had
their routines, and having me there interrupted them. Dad was asleep, as he was
on nights this month, and not to be disturbed. I tidied my room, then sat and
watched television with the sound down and when I remembered, periodically,
why I was at home in the middle of the day I had felt an actual brief pain in my
chest.
be before you, PROLOGUE
JOJO MOYES
'Gorgeously romantic and
parrncr-ignoringly compulsive 7
Independent on Sunday
JOJO MOYES
Me Before You
PENGUIN BOOKS
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
O&A with Joio
PENGUIN BOOKS
Me Before You
Jojo Moyes was born in 1969 and brought up in London. A journalist and writer,
she worked for The Independent newspaper until 2001. She lives in East Anglia
with her husband and three children. She is the author of nine novels, two of
which, The Last Letter From Your Lover (2010) and Foreign Fruit (2003), have
won the RNA Novel of the Year award.
www.jojomoyes.com
www.twitter.com/jojomoyes
To Charles, with love
PROLOGUE
2007
When he emerges from the bathroom she is awake, propped up against the
pillows and flicking through the travel brochures that were beside his bed. She is
wearing one of his T-shirts, and her long hair is tousled in a way that prompts
reflexive thoughts of the previous night. He stands there, enjoying the brief
flashback, rubbing the water from his hair with a towel.
She looks up from a brochure and pouts. She is probably slightly too old to
pout, but they’ve been going out a short enough time for it still to be cute.
‘Do we really have to do something that involves trekking up mountains, or
hanging over ravines? It’s our first proper holiday together, and there is literally
not one single trip in these that doesn’t involve either throwing yourself off
something or -’ she pretends to shudder wearing fleece .’
She throws them down on the bed, stretches her caramel-coloured arms above
her head. Her voice is husky, testament to their missed hours of sleep. ‘How
about a luxury spa in Bali? We could lie around on the sand ... spend hours
being pampered ... long relaxing nights ... ’
‘I can’t do those sorts of holidays. I need to be doing something.’
‘Like throwing yourself out of aeroplanes.’
‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.’
She pulls a face. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stick with knocking it.’
His shirt is faintly damp against his skin. He runs a comb through his hair and
switches on his mobile phone, wincing at the list of messages that immediately
pushes its way through on to the little screen.
‘Right/ he says. ‘Got to go. Help yourself to breakfast/ He leans over the bed
to kiss her. She smells warm and perfumed and deeply sexy. He inhales the scent
from the back of her hair, and briefly loses his train of thought as she wraps her
arms around his neck, pulling him down towards the bed.
‘Are we still going away this weekend?’
He extricates himself reluctantly. ‘Depends what happens on this deal. It’s all
a bit up in the air at the moment. There’s still a possibility I might have to be in
New York. Nice dinner somewhere Thursday, either way? Your choice of
restaurant.’ His motorbike leathers are on the back of the door, and he reaches
for them.
She narrows her eyes. ‘Dinner. With or without Mr BlackBerry?’
‘What?’
‘Mr BlackBerry makes me feel like Miss Gooseberry.’ The pout again. ‘I feel
like there’s always a third person vying for your attention.’
‘I’ll turn it on to silent.’
‘Will Traynor!’ she scolds. ‘You must have some time when you can switch
off.’
‘I turned it off last night, didn’t I?’
‘Only under extreme duress.’
He grins. ‘Is that what we’re calling it now?’ He pulls on his leathers. And
Lissa’s hold on his imagination is finally broken. He throws his motorbike jacket
over his arm, and blows her a kiss as he leaves.
There are twenty-two messages on his BlackBerry, the first of which came in
from New York at 3.42am. Some legal problem. He takes the lift down to the
underground car park, trying to update himself with the night’s events.
‘Morning, Mr Traynor.’
The security guard steps out of his cubicle. It’s weatherproof, even though
down here there is no weather to be protected from. Will sometimes wonders
what he does down here in the small hours, staring at the closed-circuit
television and the glossy bumpers of £60,000 cars that never get dirty.
He shoulders his way into his leather jacket. ‘What’s it like out there, Mick?’
‘Terrible. Raining cats and dogs.’
Will stops. ‘Really? Not weather for the bike?’
Mick shakes his head. ‘No, sir. Not unless you’ve got an inflatable attachment.
Or a death wish.’
Will stares at his bike, then peels himself out of his leathers. No matter what
Lissa thinks, he is not a man who believes in taking unnecessary risks. He
unlocks the top box of his bike and places the leathers inside, locking it and
throwing the keys at Mick, who catches them neatly with one hand. ‘Stick those
through my door, will you?’
‘No problem. You want me to call a taxi for you?’
‘No. No point both of us getting wet.’
Mick presses the button to open the automatic grille and Will steps out, lifting
a hand in thanks. The early morning is dark and thunderous around him, the
Central London traffic already dense and slow despite the fact that it is barely
half past seven. He pulls his collar up around his neck and strides down the street
towards the junction, from where he is most likely to hail a taxi. The roads are
slick with water, the grey light shining on the mirrored pavement.
He curses inwardly as he spies the other suited people standing on the edge of
the kerb. Since when did the whole of London begin getting up so early?
Everyone has had the same idea.
He is wondering where best to position himself when his phone rings. It is
Rupert.
‘I’m on my way in. Just trying to get a cab.’ He catches sight of a taxi with an
orange light approaching on the other side of the road, and begins to stride
towards it, hoping nobody else has seen. A bus roars past, followed by a lorry
whose brakes squeal, deafening him to Rupert’s words. ‘Can’t hear you, Rupe,’
he yells against the noise of the traffic. ‘You’ll have to say that again.’ Briefly
marooned on the island, the traffic flowing past him like a current, he can see the
orange light glowing, holds up his free hand, hoping that the driver can see him
through the heavy rain.
‘You need to call Jeff in New York. He’s still up, waiting for you. We were
trying to get you last night.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Legal hitch. Two clauses they’re stalling on under
section ... signature ... papers ... ’ His voice is drowned out by a passing car, its
tyres hissing in the wet.
‘I didn’t catch that.’
The taxi has seen him. It is slowing, sending a fine spray of water as it slows
on the opposite side of the road. He spies the man further along whose brief
sprint slows in disappointment as he sees Will must get there before him. He
feels a sneaking sense of triumph. 'Look, get Cally to have the paperwork on my
desk,’ he yells. Til be there in ten minutes.’
He glances both ways then ducks his head as he runs the last few steps across
the road towards the cab, the word ‘Blackfriars’ already on his lips. The rain is
seeping down the gap between his collar and his shirt. He will be soaked by the
time he reaches the office, even walking this short distance. He may have to send
his secretary out for another shirt.
‘And we need to get this due diligence thing worked out before Martin gets in
He glances up at the screeching sound, the rude blare of a horn. He sees the
side of the glossy black taxi in front of him, the driver already winding down his
window, and at the edge of his field of vision something he can’t quite make out,
something coming towards him at an impossible speed.
He turns towards it, and in that split second he realizes that he is in its path,
that there is no way he is going to be able to get out of its way. His hand opens in
surprise, letting the BlackBerry fall to the ground. He hears a shout, which may
be his own. The last thing he sees is a leather glove, a face under a helmet, the
shock in the man’s eyes mirroring his own. There is an explosion as everything
fragments.
And then there is nothing.
'Gorgeously romantic and
parrncr-ignoringly compulsive 7
Independent on Sunday
JOJO MOYES
Me Before You
PENGUIN BOOKS
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
O&A with Joio
PENGUIN BOOKS
Me Before You
Jojo Moyes was born in 1969 and brought up in London. A journalist and writer,
she worked for The Independent newspaper until 2001. She lives in East Anglia
with her husband and three children. She is the author of nine novels, two of
which, The Last Letter From Your Lover (2010) and Foreign Fruit (2003), have
won the RNA Novel of the Year award.
www.jojomoyes.com
www.twitter.com/jojomoyes
To Charles, with love
PROLOGUE
2007
When he emerges from the bathroom she is awake, propped up against the
pillows and flicking through the travel brochures that were beside his bed. She is
wearing one of his T-shirts, and her long hair is tousled in a way that prompts
reflexive thoughts of the previous night. He stands there, enjoying the brief
flashback, rubbing the water from his hair with a towel.
She looks up from a brochure and pouts. She is probably slightly too old to
pout, but they’ve been going out a short enough time for it still to be cute.
‘Do we really have to do something that involves trekking up mountains, or
hanging over ravines? It’s our first proper holiday together, and there is literally
not one single trip in these that doesn’t involve either throwing yourself off
something or -’ she pretends to shudder wearing fleece .’
She throws them down on the bed, stretches her caramel-coloured arms above
her head. Her voice is husky, testament to their missed hours of sleep. ‘How
about a luxury spa in Bali? We could lie around on the sand ... spend hours
being pampered ... long relaxing nights ... ’
‘I can’t do those sorts of holidays. I need to be doing something.’
‘Like throwing yourself out of aeroplanes.’
‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.’
She pulls a face. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stick with knocking it.’
His shirt is faintly damp against his skin. He runs a comb through his hair and
switches on his mobile phone, wincing at the list of messages that immediately
pushes its way through on to the little screen.
‘Right/ he says. ‘Got to go. Help yourself to breakfast/ He leans over the bed
to kiss her. She smells warm and perfumed and deeply sexy. He inhales the scent
from the back of her hair, and briefly loses his train of thought as she wraps her
arms around his neck, pulling him down towards the bed.
‘Are we still going away this weekend?’
He extricates himself reluctantly. ‘Depends what happens on this deal. It’s all
a bit up in the air at the moment. There’s still a possibility I might have to be in
New York. Nice dinner somewhere Thursday, either way? Your choice of
restaurant.’ His motorbike leathers are on the back of the door, and he reaches
for them.
She narrows her eyes. ‘Dinner. With or without Mr BlackBerry?’
‘What?’
‘Mr BlackBerry makes me feel like Miss Gooseberry.’ The pout again. ‘I feel
like there’s always a third person vying for your attention.’
‘I’ll turn it on to silent.’
‘Will Traynor!’ she scolds. ‘You must have some time when you can switch
off.’
‘I turned it off last night, didn’t I?’
‘Only under extreme duress.’
He grins. ‘Is that what we’re calling it now?’ He pulls on his leathers. And
Lissa’s hold on his imagination is finally broken. He throws his motorbike jacket
over his arm, and blows her a kiss as he leaves.
There are twenty-two messages on his BlackBerry, the first of which came in
from New York at 3.42am. Some legal problem. He takes the lift down to the
underground car park, trying to update himself with the night’s events.
‘Morning, Mr Traynor.’
The security guard steps out of his cubicle. It’s weatherproof, even though
down here there is no weather to be protected from. Will sometimes wonders
what he does down here in the small hours, staring at the closed-circuit
television and the glossy bumpers of £60,000 cars that never get dirty.
He shoulders his way into his leather jacket. ‘What’s it like out there, Mick?’
‘Terrible. Raining cats and dogs.’
Will stops. ‘Really? Not weather for the bike?’
Mick shakes his head. ‘No, sir. Not unless you’ve got an inflatable attachment.
Or a death wish.’
Will stares at his bike, then peels himself out of his leathers. No matter what
Lissa thinks, he is not a man who believes in taking unnecessary risks. He
unlocks the top box of his bike and places the leathers inside, locking it and
throwing the keys at Mick, who catches them neatly with one hand. ‘Stick those
through my door, will you?’
‘No problem. You want me to call a taxi for you?’
‘No. No point both of us getting wet.’
Mick presses the button to open the automatic grille and Will steps out, lifting
a hand in thanks. The early morning is dark and thunderous around him, the
Central London traffic already dense and slow despite the fact that it is barely
half past seven. He pulls his collar up around his neck and strides down the street
towards the junction, from where he is most likely to hail a taxi. The roads are
slick with water, the grey light shining on the mirrored pavement.
He curses inwardly as he spies the other suited people standing on the edge of
the kerb. Since when did the whole of London begin getting up so early?
Everyone has had the same idea.
He is wondering where best to position himself when his phone rings. It is
Rupert.
‘I’m on my way in. Just trying to get a cab.’ He catches sight of a taxi with an
orange light approaching on the other side of the road, and begins to stride
towards it, hoping nobody else has seen. A bus roars past, followed by a lorry
whose brakes squeal, deafening him to Rupert’s words. ‘Can’t hear you, Rupe,’
he yells against the noise of the traffic. ‘You’ll have to say that again.’ Briefly
marooned on the island, the traffic flowing past him like a current, he can see the
orange light glowing, holds up his free hand, hoping that the driver can see him
through the heavy rain.
‘You need to call Jeff in New York. He’s still up, waiting for you. We were
trying to get you last night.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Legal hitch. Two clauses they’re stalling on under
section ... signature ... papers ... ’ His voice is drowned out by a passing car, its
tyres hissing in the wet.
‘I didn’t catch that.’
The taxi has seen him. It is slowing, sending a fine spray of water as it slows
on the opposite side of the road. He spies the man further along whose brief
sprint slows in disappointment as he sees Will must get there before him. He
feels a sneaking sense of triumph. 'Look, get Cally to have the paperwork on my
desk,’ he yells. Til be there in ten minutes.’
He glances both ways then ducks his head as he runs the last few steps across
the road towards the cab, the word ‘Blackfriars’ already on his lips. The rain is
seeping down the gap between his collar and his shirt. He will be soaked by the
time he reaches the office, even walking this short distance. He may have to send
his secretary out for another shirt.
‘And we need to get this due diligence thing worked out before Martin gets in
He glances up at the screeching sound, the rude blare of a horn. He sees the
side of the glossy black taxi in front of him, the driver already winding down his
window, and at the edge of his field of vision something he can’t quite make out,
something coming towards him at an impossible speed.
He turns towards it, and in that split second he realizes that he is in its path,
that there is no way he is going to be able to get out of its way. His hand opens in
surprise, letting the BlackBerry fall to the ground. He hears a shout, which may
be his own. The last thing he sees is a leather glove, a face under a helmet, the
shock in the man’s eyes mirroring his own. There is an explosion as everything
fragments.
And then there is nothing.
Friday, June 28, 2019
and then there were none, chapter 13
Chapter 13
"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 reverted 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 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.
By tacit consent, they had adopted a plan of campaign. 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 mid-day 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... Perhaps he isn't a doctor at all... That's it, of course!... 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 some one knows
where it is..."
"They're going mad... they're 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... perhaps 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 - Judgement Day - not that! If I
could only 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? 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 question - which one? I think - yes, I rather think -
yes - him."
When the clock struck five they all jumped.
Vera said:
"Does any one - 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 whiskey - 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 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 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 whiny 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...
Tn the dark she was suddenly afraid...
"Don't be a fool," Vera Claythorne 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."
But that smell - that smell of the beach at St. Tredennick... That wasn't
imagined. It was true...
And there was some one 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...
Ill
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 running 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 some one bending over her, of some one forcing her
head down between her knees.
Then a sudden exclamation, a quick "My God, 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 some one 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..."
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 it, or some one 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.
"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. Thoughtful 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 doubtfully:
"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."
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 diversion 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?"
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 silting 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 raised the limp 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:
"Got him through the head. Instantaneous."
Vera stooped to the wig. She said, and her voice shook with terror:
"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 unnatural laugh.
'"Five little Indian 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!"
"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 reverted 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 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.
By tacit consent, they had adopted a plan of campaign. 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 mid-day 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... Perhaps he isn't a doctor at all... That's it, of course!... 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 some one knows
where it is..."
"They're going mad... they're 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... perhaps 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 - Judgement Day - not that! If I
could only 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? 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 question - which one? I think - yes, I rather think -
yes - him."
When the clock struck five they all jumped.
Vera said:
"Does any one - 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 whiskey - 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 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 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 whiny 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...
Tn the dark she was suddenly afraid...
"Don't be a fool," Vera Claythorne 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."
But that smell - that smell of the beach at St. Tredennick... That wasn't
imagined. It was true...
And there was some one 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...
Ill
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 running 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 some one bending over her, of some one forcing her
head down between her knees.
Then a sudden exclamation, a quick "My God, 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 some one 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..."
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 it, or some one 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.
"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. Thoughtful 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 doubtfully:
"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."
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 diversion 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?"
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 silting 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 raised the limp 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:
"Got him through the head. Instantaneous."
Vera stooped to the wig. She said, and her voice shook with terror:
"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 unnatural laugh.
'"Five little Indian 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!"
and then there were none, Chapter 12.2
IV
Armstrong said violently:
"Somebody must have taken it!"
There was silence in the room.
Armstrong stood with his back to the window. Four pairs of eyes were on him,
black with suspicion and accusation. He looked from Wargrave to Vera and
repeated helplessly - weakly:
"I tell you some one must have taken it."
Blore was looking at Lombard who returned his gaze.
The judge said:
"There are five of us here in this room. One of us is a murderer. The position is
fraught with grave danger. Everything must be done in order to safeguard the
four of us who are innocent. I will now ask you, Dr. Armstrong, what drugs you
have in your possession?"
Armstrong replied:
"I have a small medicine case here. You can examine it. You will find some
sleeping stuff- trional and sulphonal tablets - a packet of bromide, bicarbonate of
soda, aspirin. Nothing else. I have no cyanide in my possession."
The judge said:
"I have, myself, some sleeping tablets - sulphonal, I think they are. I presume
they would be lethal if a sufficiently large dose were given. You, Mr. Lombard,
have in your possession a revolver."
Philip Lombard said sharply:
"What if I have?"
"Only this. I propose that the doctor's supply of drugs, my own sulphonal tablets,
your revolver and anything else of the nature of drugs or firearms should be
collected together and placed in a safe place. That after this is done, we should
each of us submit to a search - both of our persons and of our effects."
Lombard said:
"I'm damned if I'll give up my revolver!"
Wargrave said sharply:
"Mr. Lombard, you are a very strongly built and powerful young man, but ex-
Inspector Blore is also a man of powerful physique. I do not know what the
outcome of a struggle between you would be but I can tell you this. On Blore's
side, assisting him to the best of our ability will be myself, Dr. Armstrong and
Miss Claythorne. You will appreciate, therefore, that the odds against you if you
choose to resist will be somewhat heavy."
Lombard threw his head back. His teeth showed in what was almost a snarl.
"Oh, very well then. Since you've got it all taped out."
Mr. Justice Wargrave nodded his head.
"You are a sensible young man. Where is this revolver of yours?"
"In the drawer of the table by my bed."
"Good."
"I'll fetch it."
"I think it would be desirable if we went with you."
Philip said with a smile that was still nearer a snarl:
"Suspicious devil, aren't you?"
They went along the corridor to Lombard's room.
Philip strode across to the bed-table and jerked open the drawer.
Then he recoiled with an oath.
The drawer of the bed-table was empty.
V
"Satisfied?" asked Lombard.
He had stripped to the skin and he and his room had been meticulously searched
by the other three men. Vera Claythorne was outside in the corridor.
The search proceeded methodically. In turn, Armstrong, the judge and Blore
submitted to the same test.
The four men emerged from Blore's room and approached Vera. It was the judge
who spoke.
"I hope you will understand. Miss Claythorne, that we can make no exceptions.
That revolver must be found. You have, I presume, a bathing dress with you?"
Vera nodded.
"Then I will ask you to go into your room and put it on and then come out to us
here."
Vera went into her room and shut the door. She reappeared in under a minute
dressed in a tight-fitting silk rucked bathing dress.
Wargrave nodded approval.
"Thank you, Miss Claythorne. Now if you will remain here, we will search your
room."
Vera waited patiently in the corridor until they emerged. Then she went in,
dressed, and came out to where they were waiting.
The judge said:
"We are now assured of one thing. There are no lethal weapons or drugs in the
possession of any of us five. That is one point to the good. We will now place the
drugs in a safe place. There is, I think, a silver chest, is there not, in the pantry?"
Blore said:
"That's all very well, but who's to have the key? You, I suppose."
Mr. Justice Wargrave made no reply.
He went down to the pantry and the others followed him. There was a small case
there designed for the purpose of holding silver and plate. By the judge's
directions, the various drugs were placed in this and it was locked. Then, still on
Wargrave's instructions, the chest was lifted into the plate cupboard and this in
turn was locked. The judge then gave the key of the chest to Philip Lombard and
the key of the cupboard to Blore.
He said:
"You two are the strongest physically. It would be difficult for either of you to get
the key from the other. It would be impossible for any of us three to do so. To
break open the cupboard - or the plate chest - would be a noisy and cumbrous
proceeding and one which could hardly be carried out without attention being
attracted to what was going on."
He paused, then went on:
"We are still faced by one very grave problem. What has become of Mr. Lombard's
revolver?"
Blore said:
"Seems to me its owner is the most likely person to know that."
A white dint showed in Philip Lombard's nostrils. He said:
"You damned pig-headed fool! I tell you it's been stolen from me!"
Wargrave asked:
"When did you see it last?"
"Last night. It was in the drawer when I went to bed - ready in case anything
happened."
The judge nodded.
He said:
"It must have been taken this morning during the confusion of searching for
Rogers or after his dead body was discovered."
Vera said:
"It must be hidden somewhere about the house. We must look for it."
Mr. Justice Wargrave's finger was stroking his chin. He said:
"I doubt if our search will result in anything. Our murderer has had plenty of
time to devise a hiding-place. I do not fancy we shall find that revolver easily."
Blore said forcefully:
"I don't know where the revolver is, but I'll bet I know where something else is -
that hypodermic syringe. Follow me."
He opened the front door and led the way round the house.
A little distance away from the dining-room window he found the syringe. Beside
it was a smashed china figure - a sixth broken Indian boy.
Blore said in a satisfied voice:
"Only place it could be. After he'd killed her, he opened the window and threw
out the syringe and picked up the china figure from the table and followed on
with that."
There were no prints on the syringe. It had been carefully wiped.
Vera said in a determined voice:
"Now let us look for the revolver."
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"By all means. But in doing so let us be careful to keep together. Remember, if we
separate, the murderer gets his chance."
They searched the house carefully from attic to cellars, but without result. The
revolver was still missing.
Armstrong said violently:
"Somebody must have taken it!"
There was silence in the room.
Armstrong stood with his back to the window. Four pairs of eyes were on him,
black with suspicion and accusation. He looked from Wargrave to Vera and
repeated helplessly - weakly:
"I tell you some one must have taken it."
Blore was looking at Lombard who returned his gaze.
The judge said:
"There are five of us here in this room. One of us is a murderer. The position is
fraught with grave danger. Everything must be done in order to safeguard the
four of us who are innocent. I will now ask you, Dr. Armstrong, what drugs you
have in your possession?"
Armstrong replied:
"I have a small medicine case here. You can examine it. You will find some
sleeping stuff- trional and sulphonal tablets - a packet of bromide, bicarbonate of
soda, aspirin. Nothing else. I have no cyanide in my possession."
The judge said:
"I have, myself, some sleeping tablets - sulphonal, I think they are. I presume
they would be lethal if a sufficiently large dose were given. You, Mr. Lombard,
have in your possession a revolver."
Philip Lombard said sharply:
"What if I have?"
"Only this. I propose that the doctor's supply of drugs, my own sulphonal tablets,
your revolver and anything else of the nature of drugs or firearms should be
collected together and placed in a safe place. That after this is done, we should
each of us submit to a search - both of our persons and of our effects."
Lombard said:
"I'm damned if I'll give up my revolver!"
Wargrave said sharply:
"Mr. Lombard, you are a very strongly built and powerful young man, but ex-
Inspector Blore is also a man of powerful physique. I do not know what the
outcome of a struggle between you would be but I can tell you this. On Blore's
side, assisting him to the best of our ability will be myself, Dr. Armstrong and
Miss Claythorne. You will appreciate, therefore, that the odds against you if you
choose to resist will be somewhat heavy."
Lombard threw his head back. His teeth showed in what was almost a snarl.
"Oh, very well then. Since you've got it all taped out."
Mr. Justice Wargrave nodded his head.
"You are a sensible young man. Where is this revolver of yours?"
"In the drawer of the table by my bed."
"Good."
"I'll fetch it."
"I think it would be desirable if we went with you."
Philip said with a smile that was still nearer a snarl:
"Suspicious devil, aren't you?"
They went along the corridor to Lombard's room.
Philip strode across to the bed-table and jerked open the drawer.
Then he recoiled with an oath.
The drawer of the bed-table was empty.
V
"Satisfied?" asked Lombard.
He had stripped to the skin and he and his room had been meticulously searched
by the other three men. Vera Claythorne was outside in the corridor.
The search proceeded methodically. In turn, Armstrong, the judge and Blore
submitted to the same test.
The four men emerged from Blore's room and approached Vera. It was the judge
who spoke.
"I hope you will understand. Miss Claythorne, that we can make no exceptions.
That revolver must be found. You have, I presume, a bathing dress with you?"
Vera nodded.
"Then I will ask you to go into your room and put it on and then come out to us
here."
Vera went into her room and shut the door. She reappeared in under a minute
dressed in a tight-fitting silk rucked bathing dress.
Wargrave nodded approval.
"Thank you, Miss Claythorne. Now if you will remain here, we will search your
room."
Vera waited patiently in the corridor until they emerged. Then she went in,
dressed, and came out to where they were waiting.
The judge said:
"We are now assured of one thing. There are no lethal weapons or drugs in the
possession of any of us five. That is one point to the good. We will now place the
drugs in a safe place. There is, I think, a silver chest, is there not, in the pantry?"
Blore said:
"That's all very well, but who's to have the key? You, I suppose."
Mr. Justice Wargrave made no reply.
He went down to the pantry and the others followed him. There was a small case
there designed for the purpose of holding silver and plate. By the judge's
directions, the various drugs were placed in this and it was locked. Then, still on
Wargrave's instructions, the chest was lifted into the plate cupboard and this in
turn was locked. The judge then gave the key of the chest to Philip Lombard and
the key of the cupboard to Blore.
He said:
"You two are the strongest physically. It would be difficult for either of you to get
the key from the other. It would be impossible for any of us three to do so. To
break open the cupboard - or the plate chest - would be a noisy and cumbrous
proceeding and one which could hardly be carried out without attention being
attracted to what was going on."
He paused, then went on:
"We are still faced by one very grave problem. What has become of Mr. Lombard's
revolver?"
Blore said:
"Seems to me its owner is the most likely person to know that."
A white dint showed in Philip Lombard's nostrils. He said:
"You damned pig-headed fool! I tell you it's been stolen from me!"
Wargrave asked:
"When did you see it last?"
"Last night. It was in the drawer when I went to bed - ready in case anything
happened."
The judge nodded.
He said:
"It must have been taken this morning during the confusion of searching for
Rogers or after his dead body was discovered."
Vera said:
"It must be hidden somewhere about the house. We must look for it."
Mr. Justice Wargrave's finger was stroking his chin. He said:
"I doubt if our search will result in anything. Our murderer has had plenty of
time to devise a hiding-place. I do not fancy we shall find that revolver easily."
Blore said forcefully:
"I don't know where the revolver is, but I'll bet I know where something else is -
that hypodermic syringe. Follow me."
He opened the front door and led the way round the house.
A little distance away from the dining-room window he found the syringe. Beside
it was a smashed china figure - a sixth broken Indian boy.
Blore said in a satisfied voice:
"Only place it could be. After he'd killed her, he opened the window and threw
out the syringe and picked up the china figure from the table and followed on
with that."
There were no prints on the syringe. It had been carefully wiped.
Vera said in a determined voice:
"Now let us look for the revolver."
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"By all means. But in doing so let us be careful to keep together. Remember, if we
separate, the murderer gets his chance."
They searched the house carefully from attic to cellars, but without result. The
revolver was still missing.
and then there were none, Chapter 12.1
and then there were none, Chapter 12
Chapter 12
The meal was over.
Mr. Justice Wargrave cleared his throat. He said in a small authoritative voice:
"It would be advisable, I think, if we met to discuss the situation. Shall we say in
half an hour's time in the drawing-room?"
Every one made a sound suggestive of agreement.
Vera began to pile plates together.
She said:
"I'll clear away and wash up."
Philip Lombard said:
"We'll bring the stuff out to the pantry for you."
"Thanks."
Emily Brent, rising to her feet; sat down again. She said:
"Oh, dear."
The judge said:
"Anything the matter, Miss Brent?"
Emily said apologetically:
"I'm sorry. I'd like to help Miss Claythorne, but I don't know how it is. I feel just a
little giddy."
"Giddy, eh?" Dr. Armstrong came towards her. "Quite natural. Delayed shock. I
can give you something to -"
"No!"
The word burst from her lips like an exploding shell.
It took every one aback. Dr. Armstrong flushed a deep red.
There was no mistaking the fear and suspicion in her face. He said stiffly:
"Just as you please, Miss Brent."
She said:
"I don't wish to take anything - anything at all. I will just sit here quietly till the
giddiness passes off."
They finished clearing away the breakfast things. Blore said:
"I'm a domestic sort of man. I'll give you a hand, Miss Claythorne."
Vera said: "Thank you."
Emily Brent was left alone sitting in the dining-room.
For a while she heard a faint murmur of voices from the pantry.
The giddiness was passing. She felt drowsy now, as though she could easily go to
sleep.
There was a buzzing in her ears - or was it a real buzzing in the room?
She thought:
"It's like a bee - a bumblebee."
Presently she saw the bee. It was crawling up the window-pane.
Vera Claythorne had talked about bees this morning.
Bees and honey...
She liked honey. Honey in the comb, and strain it yourself through a muslin bag.
Drip, drip, drip...
There was somebody in the room... somebody all wet and dripping... Beatrice
Taylor came from the river...
She had only to turn her head and she would see her.
But she couldn't turn her head...
If she were to call out...
But she couldn't call out...
There was no one else in the house. She was all alone...
She heard footsteps - soft dragging footsteps coming up behind her. The
stumbling footsteps of the drowned girl...
There was a wet dank smell in her nostrils...
On the window-pane the bee was buzzing - buzzing...
And then she felt the prick.
The bee sting on the side of her neck...
II
In the drawing-room they were waiting for Emily Brent.
Vera Claythorne said:
"Shall I go and fetch her?"
Blore said quickly:
"Just a minute."
Vera sat down again. Every one looked inquiringly at Blore.
He said:
"Look here, everybody, my opinion's this: we needn't look farther for the author of
these deaths than the dining-room at this minute. I'd take my oath that woman's
the one we're after!"
Armstrong said:
"And the motive?"
"Religious mania. What do you say, doctor?"
Armstrong said:
"It's perfectly possible. I've nothing to say against it. But of course we've no
proof."
Vera said:
"She was very odd in the kitchen when we were getting breakfast. Her eyes -"
She shivered.
Lombard said:
"You can't judge her by that. We're all a bit off our heads by now!"
Blore said:
"There's another thing. She's the only one who wouldn't give an explanation after
that gramophone record. Why? Because she hadn't any to give."
Vera stirred in her chair. She said:
"That's not quite true. She told me - afterwards."
Wargrave said:
"What did she tell you, Miss Claythorne?"
Vera repeated the story of Beatrice Taylor.
Mr. Justice Wargrave observed:
"A perfectly straightforward story. I personally should have no difficulty in
accepting it. Tell me, Miss Claythorne, did she appear to be troubled by a sense of
guilt or a feeling of remorse for her attitude in the matter?"
"None whatever," said Vera. "She was completely unmoved."
Blore said:
"Hearts as hard as flints, these righteous spinsters! Envy, mostly!"
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"It is now five minutes to eleven. I think we should summon Miss Brent to join
our conclave."
Blore said:
"Aren't you going to take any action?"
The judge said:
"I fail to see what action we can take. Our suspicions are, at the moment, only
suspicions. I will, however, ask Dr. Armstrong to observe Miss Brent's
demeanour very carefully. Let us now go into the dining-room."
They found Emily Brent sitting in the chair in which they had left her. From
behind they saw nothing amiss, except that she did not seem to hear their
entrance into the room.
And then they saw her face - suffused with blood, with blue lips and staring eyes.
Blore said:
"My God, she's dead!"
Ill
The small quiet voice of Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"One more of us acquitted - too late!"
Armstrong was bent over the dead woman. He sniffed the lips, shook his head,
peered into the eyelids.
Lombard said impatiently:
"How did she die, doctor? She was all right when we left her here!"
Armstrong's attention was riveted on a mark on the right side of the neck.
He said:
"That's the mark of a hypodermic syringe."
There was a buzzing sound from the window. Vera cried:
"Look - a bee - a bumblebee. Remember what I said this morning!"
Armstrong said grimly:
"It wasn't that bee that stung her! A human hand held the syringe."
The judge asked:
"What poison was injected?"
Armstrong answered:
"At a guess, one of the cyanides. Probably Potassium Cyanide, same as Anthony
Marston. She must have died almost immediately by asphyxiation."
Vera cried:
"But that bee? It can't be coincidence?"
Lombard said grimly:
"Oh, no, it isn't coincidence! It's our murderer's touch of local colour! He's a
playful beast. Likes to stick to his damnable nursery jingle as closely as possible'"
For the first time his voice was uneven, almost shrill. It was as though even his
nerves, seasoned by a long career of hazards and dangerous undertakings, had
given out at last.
He said violently:
"It's mad! - absolutely mad - we're all mad!"
The judge said calmly:
"We have still, I hope, our reasoning powers. Did any one bring a hypodermic
syringe to this house?"
Dr. Armstrong, straightening himself, said in a voice that was not too well
assured:
"Yes, I did."
Four pairs of eyes fastened on him. He braced himself against the deep hostile
suspicion of those eyes. He said:
"Always travel with one. Most doctors do."
Mr. Justice Wargrave said calmly:
"Quite so. Will you tell us, doctor, where that syringe is now?"
"In the suitcase in my room."
Wargrave said:
"We might, perhaps, verify that fact."
The five of them went upstairs, a silent procession.
The contents of the suitcase were turned out on the floor.
The hypodermic syringe was not there.
Chapter 12
The meal was over.
Mr. Justice Wargrave cleared his throat. He said in a small authoritative voice:
"It would be advisable, I think, if we met to discuss the situation. Shall we say in
half an hour's time in the drawing-room?"
Every one made a sound suggestive of agreement.
Vera began to pile plates together.
She said:
"I'll clear away and wash up."
Philip Lombard said:
"We'll bring the stuff out to the pantry for you."
"Thanks."
Emily Brent, rising to her feet; sat down again. She said:
"Oh, dear."
The judge said:
"Anything the matter, Miss Brent?"
Emily said apologetically:
"I'm sorry. I'd like to help Miss Claythorne, but I don't know how it is. I feel just a
little giddy."
"Giddy, eh?" Dr. Armstrong came towards her. "Quite natural. Delayed shock. I
can give you something to -"
"No!"
The word burst from her lips like an exploding shell.
It took every one aback. Dr. Armstrong flushed a deep red.
There was no mistaking the fear and suspicion in her face. He said stiffly:
"Just as you please, Miss Brent."
She said:
"I don't wish to take anything - anything at all. I will just sit here quietly till the
giddiness passes off."
They finished clearing away the breakfast things. Blore said:
"I'm a domestic sort of man. I'll give you a hand, Miss Claythorne."
Vera said: "Thank you."
Emily Brent was left alone sitting in the dining-room.
For a while she heard a faint murmur of voices from the pantry.
The giddiness was passing. She felt drowsy now, as though she could easily go to
sleep.
There was a buzzing in her ears - or was it a real buzzing in the room?
She thought:
"It's like a bee - a bumblebee."
Presently she saw the bee. It was crawling up the window-pane.
Vera Claythorne had talked about bees this morning.
Bees and honey...
She liked honey. Honey in the comb, and strain it yourself through a muslin bag.
Drip, drip, drip...
There was somebody in the room... somebody all wet and dripping... Beatrice
Taylor came from the river...
She had only to turn her head and she would see her.
But she couldn't turn her head...
If she were to call out...
But she couldn't call out...
There was no one else in the house. She was all alone...
She heard footsteps - soft dragging footsteps coming up behind her. The
stumbling footsteps of the drowned girl...
There was a wet dank smell in her nostrils...
On the window-pane the bee was buzzing - buzzing...
And then she felt the prick.
The bee sting on the side of her neck...
II
In the drawing-room they were waiting for Emily Brent.
Vera Claythorne said:
"Shall I go and fetch her?"
Blore said quickly:
"Just a minute."
Vera sat down again. Every one looked inquiringly at Blore.
He said:
"Look here, everybody, my opinion's this: we needn't look farther for the author of
these deaths than the dining-room at this minute. I'd take my oath that woman's
the one we're after!"
Armstrong said:
"And the motive?"
"Religious mania. What do you say, doctor?"
Armstrong said:
"It's perfectly possible. I've nothing to say against it. But of course we've no
proof."
Vera said:
"She was very odd in the kitchen when we were getting breakfast. Her eyes -"
She shivered.
Lombard said:
"You can't judge her by that. We're all a bit off our heads by now!"
Blore said:
"There's another thing. She's the only one who wouldn't give an explanation after
that gramophone record. Why? Because she hadn't any to give."
Vera stirred in her chair. She said:
"That's not quite true. She told me - afterwards."
Wargrave said:
"What did she tell you, Miss Claythorne?"
Vera repeated the story of Beatrice Taylor.
Mr. Justice Wargrave observed:
"A perfectly straightforward story. I personally should have no difficulty in
accepting it. Tell me, Miss Claythorne, did she appear to be troubled by a sense of
guilt or a feeling of remorse for her attitude in the matter?"
"None whatever," said Vera. "She was completely unmoved."
Blore said:
"Hearts as hard as flints, these righteous spinsters! Envy, mostly!"
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"It is now five minutes to eleven. I think we should summon Miss Brent to join
our conclave."
Blore said:
"Aren't you going to take any action?"
The judge said:
"I fail to see what action we can take. Our suspicions are, at the moment, only
suspicions. I will, however, ask Dr. Armstrong to observe Miss Brent's
demeanour very carefully. Let us now go into the dining-room."
They found Emily Brent sitting in the chair in which they had left her. From
behind they saw nothing amiss, except that she did not seem to hear their
entrance into the room.
And then they saw her face - suffused with blood, with blue lips and staring eyes.
Blore said:
"My God, she's dead!"
Ill
The small quiet voice of Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"One more of us acquitted - too late!"
Armstrong was bent over the dead woman. He sniffed the lips, shook his head,
peered into the eyelids.
Lombard said impatiently:
"How did she die, doctor? She was all right when we left her here!"
Armstrong's attention was riveted on a mark on the right side of the neck.
He said:
"That's the mark of a hypodermic syringe."
There was a buzzing sound from the window. Vera cried:
"Look - a bee - a bumblebee. Remember what I said this morning!"
Armstrong said grimly:
"It wasn't that bee that stung her! A human hand held the syringe."
The judge asked:
"What poison was injected?"
Armstrong answered:
"At a guess, one of the cyanides. Probably Potassium Cyanide, same as Anthony
Marston. She must have died almost immediately by asphyxiation."
Vera cried:
"But that bee? It can't be coincidence?"
Lombard said grimly:
"Oh, no, it isn't coincidence! It's our murderer's touch of local colour! He's a
playful beast. Likes to stick to his damnable nursery jingle as closely as possible'"
For the first time his voice was uneven, almost shrill. It was as though even his
nerves, seasoned by a long career of hazards and dangerous undertakings, had
given out at last.
He said violently:
"It's mad! - absolutely mad - we're all mad!"
The judge said calmly:
"We have still, I hope, our reasoning powers. Did any one bring a hypodermic
syringe to this house?"
Dr. Armstrong, straightening himself, said in a voice that was not too well
assured:
"Yes, I did."
Four pairs of eyes fastened on him. He braced himself against the deep hostile
suspicion of those eyes. He said:
"Always travel with one. Most doctors do."
Mr. Justice Wargrave said calmly:
"Quite so. Will you tell us, doctor, where that syringe is now?"
"In the suitcase in my room."
Wargrave said:
"We might, perhaps, verify that fact."
The five of them went upstairs, a silent procession.
The contents of the suitcase were turned out on the floor.
The hypodermic syringe was not there.
and then there were none, Chapter 12
Chapter 12
The meal was over.
Mr. Justice Wargrave cleared his throat. He said in a small authoritative voice:
"It would be advisable, I think, if we met to discuss the situation. Shall we say in
half an hour's time in the drawing-room?"
Every one made a sound suggestive of agreement.
Vera began to pile plates together.
She said:
"I'll clear away and wash up."
Philip Lombard said:
"We'll bring the stuff out to the pantry for you."
"Thanks."
Emily Brent, rising to her feet; sat down again. She said:
"Oh, dear."
The judge said:
"Anything the matter, Miss Brent?"
Emily said apologetically:
"I'm sorry. I'd like to help Miss Claythorne, but I don't know how it is. I feel just a
little giddy."
"Giddy, eh?" Dr. Armstrong came towards her. "Quite natural. Delayed shock. I
can give you something to -"
"No!"
The word burst from her lips like an exploding shell.
It took every one aback. Dr. Armstrong flushed a deep red.
There was no mistaking the fear and suspicion in her face. He said stiffly:
"Just as you please, Miss Brent."
She said:
"I don't wish to take anything - anything at all. I will just sit here quietly till the
giddiness passes off."
They finished clearing away the breakfast things. Blore said:
"I'm a domestic sort of man. I'll give you a hand, Miss Claythorne."
Vera said: "Thank you."
Emily Brent was left alone sitting in the dining-room.
For a while she heard a faint murmur of voices from the pantry.
The giddiness was passing. She felt drowsy now, as though she could easily go to
sleep.
There was a buzzing in her ears - or was it a real buzzing in the room?
She thought:
"It's like a bee - a bumblebee."
Presently she saw the bee. It was crawling up the window-pane.
Vera Claythorne had talked about bees this morning.
Bees and honey...
She liked honey. Honey in the comb, and strain it yourself through a muslin bag.
Drip, drip, drip...
There was somebody in the room... somebody all wet and dripping... Beatrice
Taylor came from the river...
She had only to turn her head and she would see her.
But she couldn't turn her head...
If she were to call out...
But she couldn't call out...
There was no one else in the house. She was all alone...
She heard footsteps - soft dragging footsteps coming up behind her. The
stumbling footsteps of the drowned girl...
There was a wet dank smell in her nostrils...
On the window-pane the bee was buzzing - buzzing...
And then she felt the prick.
The bee sting on the side of her neck...
II
In the drawing-room they were waiting for Emily Brent.
Vera Claythorne said:
"Shall I go and fetch her?"
Blore said quickly:
"Just a minute."
Vera sat down again. Every one looked inquiringly at Blore.
He said:
"Look here, everybody, my opinion's this: we needn't look farther for the author of
these deaths than the dining-room at this minute. I'd take my oath that woman's
the one we're after!"
Armstrong said:
"And the motive?"
"Religious mania. What do you say, doctor?"
Armstrong said:
"It's perfectly possible. I've nothing to say against it. But of course we've no
proof."
Vera said:
"She was very odd in the kitchen when we were getting breakfast. Her eyes -"
She shivered.
Lombard said:
"You can't judge her by that. We're all a bit off our heads by now!"
Blore said:
"There's another thing. She's the only one who wouldn't give an explanation after
that gramophone record. Why? Because she hadn't any to give."
Vera stirred in her chair. She said:
"That's not quite true. She told me - afterwards."
Wargrave said:
"What did she tell you, Miss Claythorne?"
Vera repeated the story of Beatrice Taylor.
Mr. Justice Wargrave observed:
"A perfectly straightforward story. I personally should have no difficulty in
accepting it. Tell me, Miss Claythorne, did she appear to be troubled by a sense of
guilt or a feeling of remorse for her attitude in the matter?"
"None whatever," said Vera. "She was completely unmoved."
Blore said:
"Hearts as hard as flints, these righteous spinsters! Envy, mostly!"
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"It is now five minutes to eleven. I think we should summon Miss Brent to join
our conclave."
Blore said:
"Aren't you going to take any action?"
The judge said:
"I fail to see what action we can take. Our suspicions are, at the moment, only
suspicions. I will, however, ask Dr. Armstrong to observe Miss Brent's
demeanour very carefully. Let us now go into the dining-room."
They found Emily Brent sitting in the chair in which they had left her. From
behind they saw nothing amiss, except that she did not seem to hear their
entrance into the room.
And then they saw her face - suffused with blood, with blue lips and staring eyes.
Blore said:
"My God, she's dead!"
Ill
The small quiet voice of Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"One more of us acquitted - too late!"
Armstrong was bent over the dead woman. He sniffed the lips, shook his head,
peered into the eyelids.
Lombard said impatiently:
"How did she die, doctor? She was all right when we left her here!"
Armstrong's attention was riveted on a mark on the right side of the neck.
He said:
"That's the mark of a hypodermic syringe."
There was a buzzing sound from the window. Vera cried:
"Look - a bee - a bumblebee. Remember what I said this morning!"
Armstrong said grimly:
"It wasn't that bee that stung her! A human hand held the syringe."
The judge asked:
"What poison was injected?"
Armstrong answered:
"At a guess, one of the cyanides. Probably Potassium Cyanide, same as Anthony
Marston. She must have died almost immediately by asphyxiation."
Vera cried:
"But that bee? It can't be coincidence?"
Lombard said grimly:
"Oh, no, it isn't coincidence! It's our murderer's touch of local colour! He's a
playful beast. Likes to stick to his damnable nursery jingle as closely as possible'"
For the first time his voice was uneven, almost shrill. It was as though even his
nerves, seasoned by a long career of hazards and dangerous undertakings, had
given out at last.
He said violently:
"It's mad! - absolutely mad - we're all mad!"
The judge said calmly:
"We have still, I hope, our reasoning powers. Did any one bring a hypodermic
syringe to this house?"
Dr. Armstrong, straightening himself, said in a voice that was not too well
assured:
"Yes, I did."
Four pairs of eyes fastened on him. He braced himself against the deep hostile
suspicion of those eyes. He said:
"Always travel with one. Most doctors do."
Mr. Justice Wargrave said calmly:
"Quite so. Will you tell us, doctor, where that syringe is now?"
"In the suitcase in my room."
Wargrave said:
"We might, perhaps, verify that fact."
The five of them went upstairs, a silent procession.
The contents of the suitcase were turned out on the floor.
The hypodermic syringe was not there.
IV
Armstrong said violently:
"Somebody must have taken it!"
There was silence in the room.
Armstrong stood with his back to the window. Four pairs of eyes were on him,
black with suspicion and accusation. He looked from Wargrave to Vera and
repeated helplessly - weakly:
"I tell you some one must have taken it."
Blore was looking at Lombard who returned his gaze.
The judge said:
"There are five of us here in this room. One of us is a murderer. The position is
fraught with grave danger. Everything must be done in order to safeguard the
four of us who are innocent. I will now ask you, Dr. Armstrong, what drugs you
have in your possession?"
Armstrong replied:
"I have a small medicine case here. You can examine it. You will find some
sleeping stuff- trional and sulphonal tablets - a packet of bromide, bicarbonate of
soda, aspirin. Nothing else. I have no cyanide in my possession."
The judge said:
"I have, myself, some sleeping tablets - sulphonal, I think they are. I presume
they would be lethal if a sufficiently large dose were given. You, Mr. Lombard,
have in your possession a revolver."
Philip Lombard said sharply:
"What if I have?"
"Only this. I propose that the doctor's supply of drugs, my own sulphonal tablets,
your revolver and anything else of the nature of drugs or firearms should be
collected together and placed in a safe place. That after this is done, we should
each of us submit to a search - both of our persons and of our effects."
Lombard said:
"I'm damned if I'll give up my revolver!"
Wargrave said sharply:
"Mr. Lombard, you are a very strongly built and powerful young man, but ex-
Inspector Blore is also a man of powerful physique. I do not know what the
outcome of a struggle between you would be but I can tell you this. On Blore's
side, assisting him to the best of our ability will be myself, Dr. Armstrong and
Miss Claythorne. You will appreciate, therefore, that the odds against you if you
choose to resist will be somewhat heavy."
Lombard threw his head back. His teeth showed in what was almost a snarl.
"Oh, very well then. Since you've got it all taped out."
Mr. Justice Wargrave nodded his head.
"You are a sensible young man. Where is this revolver of yours?"
"In the drawer of the table by my bed."
"Good."
"I'll fetch it."
"I think it would be desirable if we went with you."
Philip said with a smile that was still nearer a snarl:
"Suspicious devil, aren't you?"
They went along the corridor to Lombard's room.
Philip strode across to the bed-table and jerked open the drawer.
Then he recoiled with an oath.
The drawer of the bed-table was empty.
V
"Satisfied?" asked Lombard.
He had stripped to the skin and he and his room had been meticulously searched
by the other three men. Vera Claythorne was outside in the corridor.
The search proceeded methodically. In turn, Armstrong, the judge and Blore
submitted to the same test.
The four men emerged from Blore's room and approached Vera. It was the judge
who spoke.
"I hope you will understand. Miss Claythorne, that we can make no exceptions.
That revolver must be found. You have, I presume, a bathing dress with you?"
Vera nodded.
"Then I will ask you to go into your room and put it on and then come out to us
here."
Vera went into her room and shut the door. She reappeared in under a minute
dressed in a tight-fitting silk rucked bathing dress.
Wargrave nodded approval.
"Thank you, Miss Claythorne. Now if you will remain here, we will search your
room."
Vera waited patiently in the corridor until they emerged. Then she went in,
dressed, and came out to where they were waiting.
The judge said:
"We are now assured of one thing. There are no lethal weapons or drugs in the
possession of any of us five. That is one point to the good. We will now place the
drugs in a safe place. There is, I think, a silver chest, is there not, in the pantry?"
Blore said:
"That's all very well, but who's to have the key? You, I suppose."
Mr. Justice Wargrave made no reply.
He went down to the pantry and the others followed him. There was a small case
there designed for the purpose of holding silver and plate. By the judge's
directions, the various drugs were placed in this and it was locked. Then, still on
Wargrave's instructions, the chest was lifted into the plate cupboard and this in
turn was locked. The judge then gave the key of the chest to Philip Lombard and
the key of the cupboard to Blore.
He said:
"You two are the strongest physically. It would be difficult for either of you to get
the key from the other. It would be impossible for any of us three to do so. To
break open the cupboard - or the plate chest - would be a noisy and cumbrous
proceeding and one which could hardly be carried out without attention being
attracted to what was going on."
He paused, then went on:
"We are still faced by one very grave problem. What has become of Mr. Lombard's
revolver?"
Blore said:
"Seems to me its owner is the most likely person to know that."
A white dint showed in Philip Lombard's nostrils. He said:
"You damned pig-headed fool! I tell you it's been stolen from me!"
Wargrave asked:
"When did you see it last?"
"Last night. It was in the drawer when I went to bed - ready in case anything
happened."
The judge nodded.
He said:
"It must have been taken this morning during the confusion of searching for
Rogers or after his dead body was discovered."
Vera said:
"It must be hidden somewhere about the house. We must look for it."
Mr. Justice Wargrave's finger was stroking his chin. He said:
"I doubt if our search will result in anything. Our murderer has had plenty of
time to devise a hiding-place. I do not fancy we shall find that revolver easily."
Blore said forcefully:
"I don't know where the revolver is, but I'll bet I know where something else is -
that hypodermic syringe. Follow me."
He opened the front door and led the way round the house.
A little distance away from the dining-room window he found the syringe. Beside
it was a smashed china figure - a sixth broken Indian boy.
Blore said in a satisfied voice:
"Only place it could be. After he'd killed her, he opened the window and threw
out the syringe and picked up the china figure from the table and followed on
with that."
There were no prints on the syringe. It had been carefully wiped.
Vera said in a determined voice:
"Now let us look for the revolver."
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"By all means. But in doing so let us be careful to keep together. Remember, if we
separate, the murderer gets his chance."
They searched the house carefully from attic to cellars, but without result. The
revolver was still missing.
The meal was over.
Mr. Justice Wargrave cleared his throat. He said in a small authoritative voice:
"It would be advisable, I think, if we met to discuss the situation. Shall we say in
half an hour's time in the drawing-room?"
Every one made a sound suggestive of agreement.
Vera began to pile plates together.
She said:
"I'll clear away and wash up."
Philip Lombard said:
"We'll bring the stuff out to the pantry for you."
"Thanks."
Emily Brent, rising to her feet; sat down again. She said:
"Oh, dear."
The judge said:
"Anything the matter, Miss Brent?"
Emily said apologetically:
"I'm sorry. I'd like to help Miss Claythorne, but I don't know how it is. I feel just a
little giddy."
"Giddy, eh?" Dr. Armstrong came towards her. "Quite natural. Delayed shock. I
can give you something to -"
"No!"
The word burst from her lips like an exploding shell.
It took every one aback. Dr. Armstrong flushed a deep red.
There was no mistaking the fear and suspicion in her face. He said stiffly:
"Just as you please, Miss Brent."
She said:
"I don't wish to take anything - anything at all. I will just sit here quietly till the
giddiness passes off."
They finished clearing away the breakfast things. Blore said:
"I'm a domestic sort of man. I'll give you a hand, Miss Claythorne."
Vera said: "Thank you."
Emily Brent was left alone sitting in the dining-room.
For a while she heard a faint murmur of voices from the pantry.
The giddiness was passing. She felt drowsy now, as though she could easily go to
sleep.
There was a buzzing in her ears - or was it a real buzzing in the room?
She thought:
"It's like a bee - a bumblebee."
Presently she saw the bee. It was crawling up the window-pane.
Vera Claythorne had talked about bees this morning.
Bees and honey...
She liked honey. Honey in the comb, and strain it yourself through a muslin bag.
Drip, drip, drip...
There was somebody in the room... somebody all wet and dripping... Beatrice
Taylor came from the river...
She had only to turn her head and she would see her.
But she couldn't turn her head...
If she were to call out...
But she couldn't call out...
There was no one else in the house. She was all alone...
She heard footsteps - soft dragging footsteps coming up behind her. The
stumbling footsteps of the drowned girl...
There was a wet dank smell in her nostrils...
On the window-pane the bee was buzzing - buzzing...
And then she felt the prick.
The bee sting on the side of her neck...
II
In the drawing-room they were waiting for Emily Brent.
Vera Claythorne said:
"Shall I go and fetch her?"
Blore said quickly:
"Just a minute."
Vera sat down again. Every one looked inquiringly at Blore.
He said:
"Look here, everybody, my opinion's this: we needn't look farther for the author of
these deaths than the dining-room at this minute. I'd take my oath that woman's
the one we're after!"
Armstrong said:
"And the motive?"
"Religious mania. What do you say, doctor?"
Armstrong said:
"It's perfectly possible. I've nothing to say against it. But of course we've no
proof."
Vera said:
"She was very odd in the kitchen when we were getting breakfast. Her eyes -"
She shivered.
Lombard said:
"You can't judge her by that. We're all a bit off our heads by now!"
Blore said:
"There's another thing. She's the only one who wouldn't give an explanation after
that gramophone record. Why? Because she hadn't any to give."
Vera stirred in her chair. She said:
"That's not quite true. She told me - afterwards."
Wargrave said:
"What did she tell you, Miss Claythorne?"
Vera repeated the story of Beatrice Taylor.
Mr. Justice Wargrave observed:
"A perfectly straightforward story. I personally should have no difficulty in
accepting it. Tell me, Miss Claythorne, did she appear to be troubled by a sense of
guilt or a feeling of remorse for her attitude in the matter?"
"None whatever," said Vera. "She was completely unmoved."
Blore said:
"Hearts as hard as flints, these righteous spinsters! Envy, mostly!"
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"It is now five minutes to eleven. I think we should summon Miss Brent to join
our conclave."
Blore said:
"Aren't you going to take any action?"
The judge said:
"I fail to see what action we can take. Our suspicions are, at the moment, only
suspicions. I will, however, ask Dr. Armstrong to observe Miss Brent's
demeanour very carefully. Let us now go into the dining-room."
They found Emily Brent sitting in the chair in which they had left her. From
behind they saw nothing amiss, except that she did not seem to hear their
entrance into the room.
And then they saw her face - suffused with blood, with blue lips and staring eyes.
Blore said:
"My God, she's dead!"
Ill
The small quiet voice of Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"One more of us acquitted - too late!"
Armstrong was bent over the dead woman. He sniffed the lips, shook his head,
peered into the eyelids.
Lombard said impatiently:
"How did she die, doctor? She was all right when we left her here!"
Armstrong's attention was riveted on a mark on the right side of the neck.
He said:
"That's the mark of a hypodermic syringe."
There was a buzzing sound from the window. Vera cried:
"Look - a bee - a bumblebee. Remember what I said this morning!"
Armstrong said grimly:
"It wasn't that bee that stung her! A human hand held the syringe."
The judge asked:
"What poison was injected?"
Armstrong answered:
"At a guess, one of the cyanides. Probably Potassium Cyanide, same as Anthony
Marston. She must have died almost immediately by asphyxiation."
Vera cried:
"But that bee? It can't be coincidence?"
Lombard said grimly:
"Oh, no, it isn't coincidence! It's our murderer's touch of local colour! He's a
playful beast. Likes to stick to his damnable nursery jingle as closely as possible'"
For the first time his voice was uneven, almost shrill. It was as though even his
nerves, seasoned by a long career of hazards and dangerous undertakings, had
given out at last.
He said violently:
"It's mad! - absolutely mad - we're all mad!"
The judge said calmly:
"We have still, I hope, our reasoning powers. Did any one bring a hypodermic
syringe to this house?"
Dr. Armstrong, straightening himself, said in a voice that was not too well
assured:
"Yes, I did."
Four pairs of eyes fastened on him. He braced himself against the deep hostile
suspicion of those eyes. He said:
"Always travel with one. Most doctors do."
Mr. Justice Wargrave said calmly:
"Quite so. Will you tell us, doctor, where that syringe is now?"
"In the suitcase in my room."
Wargrave said:
"We might, perhaps, verify that fact."
The five of them went upstairs, a silent procession.
The contents of the suitcase were turned out on the floor.
The hypodermic syringe was not there.
IV
Armstrong said violently:
"Somebody must have taken it!"
There was silence in the room.
Armstrong stood with his back to the window. Four pairs of eyes were on him,
black with suspicion and accusation. He looked from Wargrave to Vera and
repeated helplessly - weakly:
"I tell you some one must have taken it."
Blore was looking at Lombard who returned his gaze.
The judge said:
"There are five of us here in this room. One of us is a murderer. The position is
fraught with grave danger. Everything must be done in order to safeguard the
four of us who are innocent. I will now ask you, Dr. Armstrong, what drugs you
have in your possession?"
Armstrong replied:
"I have a small medicine case here. You can examine it. You will find some
sleeping stuff- trional and sulphonal tablets - a packet of bromide, bicarbonate of
soda, aspirin. Nothing else. I have no cyanide in my possession."
The judge said:
"I have, myself, some sleeping tablets - sulphonal, I think they are. I presume
they would be lethal if a sufficiently large dose were given. You, Mr. Lombard,
have in your possession a revolver."
Philip Lombard said sharply:
"What if I have?"
"Only this. I propose that the doctor's supply of drugs, my own sulphonal tablets,
your revolver and anything else of the nature of drugs or firearms should be
collected together and placed in a safe place. That after this is done, we should
each of us submit to a search - both of our persons and of our effects."
Lombard said:
"I'm damned if I'll give up my revolver!"
Wargrave said sharply:
"Mr. Lombard, you are a very strongly built and powerful young man, but ex-
Inspector Blore is also a man of powerful physique. I do not know what the
outcome of a struggle between you would be but I can tell you this. On Blore's
side, assisting him to the best of our ability will be myself, Dr. Armstrong and
Miss Claythorne. You will appreciate, therefore, that the odds against you if you
choose to resist will be somewhat heavy."
Lombard threw his head back. His teeth showed in what was almost a snarl.
"Oh, very well then. Since you've got it all taped out."
Mr. Justice Wargrave nodded his head.
"You are a sensible young man. Where is this revolver of yours?"
"In the drawer of the table by my bed."
"Good."
"I'll fetch it."
"I think it would be desirable if we went with you."
Philip said with a smile that was still nearer a snarl:
"Suspicious devil, aren't you?"
They went along the corridor to Lombard's room.
Philip strode across to the bed-table and jerked open the drawer.
Then he recoiled with an oath.
The drawer of the bed-table was empty.
V
"Satisfied?" asked Lombard.
He had stripped to the skin and he and his room had been meticulously searched
by the other three men. Vera Claythorne was outside in the corridor.
The search proceeded methodically. In turn, Armstrong, the judge and Blore
submitted to the same test.
The four men emerged from Blore's room and approached Vera. It was the judge
who spoke.
"I hope you will understand. Miss Claythorne, that we can make no exceptions.
That revolver must be found. You have, I presume, a bathing dress with you?"
Vera nodded.
"Then I will ask you to go into your room and put it on and then come out to us
here."
Vera went into her room and shut the door. She reappeared in under a minute
dressed in a tight-fitting silk rucked bathing dress.
Wargrave nodded approval.
"Thank you, Miss Claythorne. Now if you will remain here, we will search your
room."
Vera waited patiently in the corridor until they emerged. Then she went in,
dressed, and came out to where they were waiting.
The judge said:
"We are now assured of one thing. There are no lethal weapons or drugs in the
possession of any of us five. That is one point to the good. We will now place the
drugs in a safe place. There is, I think, a silver chest, is there not, in the pantry?"
Blore said:
"That's all very well, but who's to have the key? You, I suppose."
Mr. Justice Wargrave made no reply.
He went down to the pantry and the others followed him. There was a small case
there designed for the purpose of holding silver and plate. By the judge's
directions, the various drugs were placed in this and it was locked. Then, still on
Wargrave's instructions, the chest was lifted into the plate cupboard and this in
turn was locked. The judge then gave the key of the chest to Philip Lombard and
the key of the cupboard to Blore.
He said:
"You two are the strongest physically. It would be difficult for either of you to get
the key from the other. It would be impossible for any of us three to do so. To
break open the cupboard - or the plate chest - would be a noisy and cumbrous
proceeding and one which could hardly be carried out without attention being
attracted to what was going on."
He paused, then went on:
"We are still faced by one very grave problem. What has become of Mr. Lombard's
revolver?"
Blore said:
"Seems to me its owner is the most likely person to know that."
A white dint showed in Philip Lombard's nostrils. He said:
"You damned pig-headed fool! I tell you it's been stolen from me!"
Wargrave asked:
"When did you see it last?"
"Last night. It was in the drawer when I went to bed - ready in case anything
happened."
The judge nodded.
He said:
"It must have been taken this morning during the confusion of searching for
Rogers or after his dead body was discovered."
Vera said:
"It must be hidden somewhere about the house. We must look for it."
Mr. Justice Wargrave's finger was stroking his chin. He said:
"I doubt if our search will result in anything. Our murderer has had plenty of
time to devise a hiding-place. I do not fancy we shall find that revolver easily."
Blore said forcefully:
"I don't know where the revolver is, but I'll bet I know where something else is -
that hypodermic syringe. Follow me."
He opened the front door and led the way round the house.
A little distance away from the dining-room window he found the syringe. Beside
it was a smashed china figure - a sixth broken Indian boy.
Blore said in a satisfied voice:
"Only place it could be. After he'd killed her, he opened the window and threw
out the syringe and picked up the china figure from the table and followed on
with that."
There were no prints on the syringe. It had been carefully wiped.
Vera said in a determined voice:
"Now let us look for the revolver."
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"By all means. But in doing so let us be careful to keep together. Remember, if we
separate, the murderer gets his chance."
They searched the house carefully from attic to cellars, but without result. The
revolver was still missing.
and then there were none, chapter 11.2
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 - 1
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 woman 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."
Blore's face went crimson. He demanded angrily:
"And what about you?"
Philip Lombard's face went hard and dangerous.
He said:
"I've a pretty good imagination of my own. I've been in tight places before now
and got out of them! I think - 1 won't say more than that but I think I'll get out of
this one."
V
The eggs were in the frying-pan. Vera, at the stove, thought to herself:
"Why did I make a hysterical fool of myself? That was a mistake. Keep calm, my
girl, keep calm."
After all, she'd always prided herself on her levelheadedness!
"Miss Claythorne was wonderful - kept her head - started off swimming after
Cyril at once."
Why think of that now? All that was over - over... Cyril had disappeared long
before she got near the rock. She had felt the current take her, sweeping her out
to sea. She had let herself go with it - swimming quietly, floating - till the boat
arrived at last...
They had praised her courage and her sang-froid...
But not Hugo. Hugo had just - looked at her...
God, how it hurt, even now, to think of Hugo...
Where was he? What was he doing? Was he engaged - married?
Emily Brent said sharply:
"Vera, that bacon is burning."
"Oh, sorry, Miss Brent, so it is. How stupid of me."
Emily Brent lifted out the last egg from the sizzling fat.
Vera, putting fresh pieces of bacon in the frying-pan, said curiously:
"You're wonderfully calm, Miss Brent."
Emily Brent said, pressing her lips together:
"I was brought up to keep my head and never to make a fuss."
Vera thought mechanically:
"Repressed as a child... That accounts for a lot..."
She said:
"Aren't you afraid?"
She paused and then added:
"Or don't you mind dying?"
Dying! It was as though a sharp little gimlet had run into the solid congealed
mass of Emily Brent's brain. Dying? But she wasn't going to die! The others
would die - yes - but not she, Emily Brent. This girl didn't understand! Emily
wasn't afraid naturally - none of the Brents were afraid, All her people were
Service people. They faced death unflinchingly. They led upright lives just as she,
Emily Brent, had led an upright life... She had never done anything to be
ashamed of... And so, naturally, she wasn't going to die...
"The Lord is mindful of his own." "Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by
night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day..." It was daylight now - there was no
terror. "We shall none of us leave this island... Who had said that? General
Macarthur, of course, whose cousin had married Elsie MacPherson. He hadn't
seemed to care. He had seemed - actually - to welcome the idea! Wicked! Almost
impious to feel that way. Some people thought so little of death that they actually
took their own lives. Beatrice Taylor... Last night she had dreamed of Beatrice -
dreamt that she was outside pressing her face against the window and moaning,
asking to be let in. But Emily Brent hadn't wanted to let her in. Because, if she
did, something terrible would happen...
Emily came to herself with a start. That girl was looking at her very strangely.
She said in a brisk voice:
"Everything's ready, isn't it? We'll take the breakfast in."
VI
Breakfast was a curious meal. Every one was very polite.
"May I get you some more coffee, Miss Brent?"
"Miss Claythorne, a slice of ham?"
"Another piece of bacon?"
Six people, all outwardly self-possessed and normal.
And within? Thoughts that ran round in a circle like squirrels in a cage...
"What next? What next? Who? Which?"
"Would it work? I wonder. It's worth trying. If there's time. My God, if there's
time..."
"Religious mania, that's the ticket... Looking at her, though, you can hardly
believe it... Suppose I'm wrong..."
"It's crazy - every thing's crazy. I'm going crazy. Wool disappearing - red silk
curtains - it doesn't make sense. I can't get the hang of it..."
"The damned fool, he believed every word I said to him. It was easy... I must be
careful, though, very careful...
"Six of those little china figures... only six - how many will there be by tonight?..."
Who'll have the last egg?"
'Marmalade?"
"Thanks, can I give you some ham?"
Six people, behaving normally at breakfast.
"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 - 1
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 woman 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."
Blore's face went crimson. He demanded angrily:
"And what about you?"
Philip Lombard's face went hard and dangerous.
He said:
"I've a pretty good imagination of my own. I've been in tight places before now
and got out of them! I think - 1 won't say more than that but I think I'll get out of
this one."
V
The eggs were in the frying-pan. Vera, at the stove, thought to herself:
"Why did I make a hysterical fool of myself? That was a mistake. Keep calm, my
girl, keep calm."
After all, she'd always prided herself on her levelheadedness!
"Miss Claythorne was wonderful - kept her head - started off swimming after
Cyril at once."
Why think of that now? All that was over - over... Cyril had disappeared long
before she got near the rock. She had felt the current take her, sweeping her out
to sea. She had let herself go with it - swimming quietly, floating - till the boat
arrived at last...
They had praised her courage and her sang-froid...
But not Hugo. Hugo had just - looked at her...
God, how it hurt, even now, to think of Hugo...
Where was he? What was he doing? Was he engaged - married?
Emily Brent said sharply:
"Vera, that bacon is burning."
"Oh, sorry, Miss Brent, so it is. How stupid of me."
Emily Brent lifted out the last egg from the sizzling fat.
Vera, putting fresh pieces of bacon in the frying-pan, said curiously:
"You're wonderfully calm, Miss Brent."
Emily Brent said, pressing her lips together:
"I was brought up to keep my head and never to make a fuss."
Vera thought mechanically:
"Repressed as a child... That accounts for a lot..."
She said:
"Aren't you afraid?"
She paused and then added:
"Or don't you mind dying?"
Dying! It was as though a sharp little gimlet had run into the solid congealed
mass of Emily Brent's brain. Dying? But she wasn't going to die! The others
would die - yes - but not she, Emily Brent. This girl didn't understand! Emily
wasn't afraid naturally - none of the Brents were afraid, All her people were
Service people. They faced death unflinchingly. They led upright lives just as she,
Emily Brent, had led an upright life... She had never done anything to be
ashamed of... And so, naturally, she wasn't going to die...
"The Lord is mindful of his own." "Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by
night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day..." It was daylight now - there was no
terror. "We shall none of us leave this island... Who had said that? General
Macarthur, of course, whose cousin had married Elsie MacPherson. He hadn't
seemed to care. He had seemed - actually - to welcome the idea! Wicked! Almost
impious to feel that way. Some people thought so little of death that they actually
took their own lives. Beatrice Taylor... Last night she had dreamed of Beatrice -
dreamt that she was outside pressing her face against the window and moaning,
asking to be let in. But Emily Brent hadn't wanted to let her in. Because, if she
did, something terrible would happen...
Emily came to herself with a start. That girl was looking at her very strangely.
She said in a brisk voice:
"Everything's ready, isn't it? We'll take the breakfast in."
VI
Breakfast was a curious meal. Every one was very polite.
"May I get you some more coffee, Miss Brent?"
"Miss Claythorne, a slice of ham?"
"Another piece of bacon?"
Six people, all outwardly self-possessed and normal.
And within? Thoughts that ran round in a circle like squirrels in a cage...
"What next? What next? Who? Which?"
"Would it work? I wonder. It's worth trying. If there's time. My God, if there's
time..."
"Religious mania, that's the ticket... Looking at her, though, you can hardly
believe it... Suppose I'm wrong..."
"It's crazy - every thing's crazy. I'm going crazy. Wool disappearing - red silk
curtains - it doesn't make sense. I can't get the hang of it..."
"The damned fool, he believed every word I said to him. It was easy... I must be
careful, though, very careful...
"Six of those little china figures... only six - how many will there be by tonight?..."
Who'll have the last egg?"
'Marmalade?"
"Thanks, can I give you some ham?"
Six people, behaving normally at breakfast.
and then there were none, chapter 11.1
and then there were none, chapter 11
Chapter 11
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 any one! My advice is that we
keep together until we find him."
Armstrong said:
"He must be out on the island 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 lookout."
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:
"He 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 Indians! 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...
Ill
"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 any one who's mentally unhinged has a good deal of
unsuspected strength."
The judge nodded thoughtfully.
Blore rose from 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 Indian boys chopping
up sticks. And the next verse. I know the whole thing by heart, I tell you! Six
little Indian 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, hiccuped - 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?"
Chapter 11
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 any one! My advice is that we
keep together until we find him."
Armstrong said:
"He must be out on the island 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 lookout."
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:
"He 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 Indians! 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...
Ill
"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 any one who's mentally unhinged has a good deal of
unsuspected strength."
The judge nodded thoughtfully.
Blore rose from 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 Indian boys chopping
up sticks. And the next verse. I know the whole thing by heart, I tell you! Six
little Indian 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, hiccuped - 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?"
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