And Then There Were None (17 page)

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...

III

Vera screamed. She screamed and screamed - screams of the utmost terror - wild desperate cries for help.

She did not hear the sounds from below, of a chair being overturned, of a door opening, of men's feet 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!”

They had carried Mr. Justice Wargrave up to his room and laid him on the bed.

Then they had come down again and had stood in the hall looking at each other.

Blore said heavily:

“What do we do now?”

Lombard said briskly:

“Have something to eat. We've got to eat, you know.”

Once again they went into the kitchen. Again they opened a tin of tongue. They ate mechanically, almost without tasting.

Vera said:

“I shall never eat tongue again.”

They finished the meal. They sat round the kitchen table staring at each other.

Blore said:

“Only four of us now... Who'll be the next?”

Armstrong stared. He said, almost mechanically:

“We must be very careful -” and stopped.

Blore nodded.

“That's what he said... And now he's dead!”

Armstrong said:

“How did it happen, I wonder?”

Lombard swore. He said:

“A damned clever double cross! That stuff was planted in Miss Claythorne's room and it worked just as it was intended to. Every one dashes up there thinking she's being murdered. And so - in the confusion - some one - caught the old boy off his guard.”

Blore said:

“Why didn't any one hear the shot?”

Lombard shook his head.

“Miss Claythorne was screaming, the wind was howling, we were running about and calling out. No, it wouldn't be heard.” He paused. “But that trick's not going to work again. He'll have to try something else next time.”

Blore said:

“He probably will.”

There was an unpleasant tone in his voice. The two men eyed each other.

Armstrong said:

“Four of us, and we don't know which...”

Blore said:

“I know...”

Vera said:

“I haven't the least doubt...”

Armstrong said slowly:

“I suppose I do know really...”

Philip Lombard said:

“I think I've got a pretty good idea now...”

Again they all looked at each other...

Vera staggered to her feet. She said:

“I feel awful. I must go to bed... I'm dead beat.”

Lombard said:

“Might as well. No good sitting watching each other.”

Blore said:

“I've no objection...”

The doctor murmured:

“The best thing to do - although I doubt if any of us will sleep.”

They moved to the door. Blore said:

“I wonder where that revolver is now?...”

II

They went up the stairs.

The next move was a little like a scene in a farce.

Each one of the four stood with a hand on his or her bedroom door handle. Then, as though at a signal, each one stepped into the room and pulled the door shut. There were sounds of bolts and locks, of the moving of furniture.

Four frightened people were barricaded in until morning.

III

Philip Lombard drew a breath of relief as he turned from adjusting a chair under the door handle.

He strolled across to the dressing-table.

By the light of the flickering candle he studied his face curiously.

He said softly to himself:

“Yes, this business has got you rattled all right.”

His sudden wolf-like smile flashed out.

He undressed quickly.

He went over to the bed, placing his wrist-watch on the table by the bed.

Then he opened the drawer of the table.

He stood there, staring down at the revolver that was inside it...

IV

Vera Claythorne lay in bed.

The candle still burned beside her.

As yet she could not summon the courage to put it out.

She was afraid of the dark...

She told herself again and again: “You're all right until morning. Nothing happened last night. Nothing will happen tonight. Nothing can happen. You're locked and bolted in. No one can come near you...”

And she thought suddenly:

“Of course! I can stay here! Stay here locked in! Food doesn't really matter! I can stay here - safely - till help comes! Even if it's a day - or two days...”

Stay here. Yes, but could she stay here? Hour after hour - with no one to speak to, with nothing to do but think...

She'd begin to think of Cornwall - of Hugo - of - of what she'd said to Cyril.

Horrid whiny little boy, always pestering her...

“Miss Claythorne, why can't I swim out to the rock? I can. I know I can.”

Was it her voice that had answered?

“Of course you can, Cyril, really. I know that.”

“Can I go then, Miss Claythorne?”

“Well, you see, Cyril, your mother gets so nervous about you. I'll tell you what. Tomorrow you can swim out to the rock. I'll talk to your mother on the beach and distract her attention. And then, when she looks for you, there you'll be standing on the rock waving to her! It will be a surprise!”