In the comer of a firstclass smoking carriage, Mr. Justice Wargrave, lately retired
from the bench, puffed at a cigar and ran an interested eye through the
political news in the Times.
He laid the paper down and glanced out of the window. They were running now
through Somerset. He glanced at his watch another two hours to go.
He went over in his mind all that had appeared in the papers about Indian
Island. There had been its original purchase by an American millionaire who
was
crazy about yachting and an account of the luxurious modern house he had built
on this little island off the Devon coast. The unfortunate fact that the new third
wife of the American millionaire was a bad sailor had led to the subsequent
putting up of the house and island for sale. Various glowing advertisements of it
had appeared in the papers. Then came the first bald statement that it had been
bought by a Mr. Owen. After that the rumours of the gossip writers had started.
Indian Island had really been bought by Miss Gabrielle Turl, the Hollywood film
star! She wanted to spend some months there free from all publicity! Busy Bee
had hinted delicately that it was to be an abode for Royalty??! Mr. Merryweather
had had it whispered to him that it had been bought for a honeymoon Young
Lord L... had surrendered to Cupid at last! Jones knew for a fact that it had been
purchased by the Admiralty with a view to carrying out some very hush hush
experiments!
Definitely, Indian Island was news!
From his pocket Mr. Justice Wargrave drew out a letter. The handwriting was
practically illegible but words here and there stood out with unexpected clarity.
Dearest Lawrence... such years since I heard anything of you... must come to
Indian Island... the most enchanting place... so much to talk over... old days...
communion with Nature... bask in sunshine... 12:40 from Paddington... meet you
at Oakbridge... and his correspondent signed herself with a flourish his ever
Constance Culmington.
Mr. Justice Wargrave cast back in his mind to remember when exactly he had
last seen Lady Constance Culmington. It must be seven no, eight years ago. She
had then been going to Italy to bask in the sun and be at one with Nature and
the contadini. Later, he had heard, she had proceeded to Syria where she
proposed to bask in yet stronger sun and live at one with Nature and the bedouin.
Constance Culmington, he reflected to himself, was exactly the sort of woman
who would buy an island and surround herself with mystery! Nodding his head
in gentle approval of his logic, Mr. Justice Wargrave allowed his head to nod...
He slept...
II
Vera Claythorne, in a thirdclass carriage with five other travellers in it, leaned
her head back and shut her eyes. How hot it was travelling by train today! It
would be nice to get to the sea! Really a great piece of luck getting this job.
When you wanted a holiday post it nearly always meant looking after a swarm of
children secretarial holiday posts were much more difficult to get. Even the
agency hadn
And then the letter had come.
"I have received your name from the Skilled Women's Agency together with
their recommendation. I understand they know you personally. I shall be glad to
pay
you the salary you ask and shall expect you to take up your duties on August 8th.
The train is the 12:40 from Paddington and you will be met at Oakbridge station.
I enclose five pound notes for expenses.
Yours truly,
Una Nancy Owen.
And at the top was the stamped address Indian Island. Sticklehaven. Devon...
Indian Island! Why, there had been nothing else in the papers lately! All sorts of
hints and interesting rumours. Though probably that was mostly untrue. But the
house had certainly been built by a millionaire and was said to be absolutely the
last word in luxury.
Vera Claythorne, tired by a recent strenuous term at school, thought to herself
"Being a games mistress in a thirdclass school isn
could get a job at some decent school."
And then, with a cold feeling round her heart, she thought: "But I
have even this. After all, people don
Coroner did acquit me of all blame!"
He had even complimented her on her presence of mind and courage, she
remembered. For an inquest it couldn't have gone better. And Mrs. Hamilton had
been kindness itself to her only Hugo (but she wouldn't think of Hugo!)
Suddenly, in spite of the heat in the carriage she shivered and wished she wasn't
going to the sea. A picture rose clearly before her mind. Cyril's head, bobbing up
and down, swimming to the rock... Up and down up and down... And herself,
swimming in easy practised strokes after him cleaving her way through the water
but knowing, only too surely, that she wouldn't be in time...
The sea its deep warm blue mornings spent lying out on the sands Hugo
Hugo who had said he loved her...
She must not think of Hugo...
She opened her eyes and frowned across at the man opposite her. A tall man with
a brown face, light eyes set rather close together and an arrogant almost cruel
mouth.
She thought to herself:
"I bet he
things..."
Ill
Philip Lombard, summing up the girl opposite in a mere flash of his quick
moving eyes thought to himself:
"Quite attractive a bit schoolmistressy perhaps..."
A cool customer, he should imagine and one who could hold her own in love or
war. He'd rather like to take her on...
He frowned. No, cut out all that kind of stuff. This was business. He'd got to
keep his mind on the job.
What exactly was up, he wondered? That little Jew had been damned
mysterious.
"Take it or leave it, Captain Lombard."
He had said thoughtfully:
"A hundred guineas, eh?"
He had said it in a casual way as though a hundred guineas was nothing to him.
A hundred guineas when he was literally down to his last square meal! He had
fancied, though, that the little Jew had not been deceived that was the damnable
part about Jews, you couldn't deceive them about money they knew!
He had said in the same casual tone:
"And you can
Mr. Isaac Morris had shaken his little bald head very positively.
"No, Captain Lombard, the matter rests there. It is understood by my client that
your reputation is that of a good man in a tight place. I am empowered to hand
you one hundred guineas in return for which you will travel to Sticklehaven,
Devon. The nearest station is Oakbridge, you will be met there and motored to
Sticklehaven where a motor launch will convey you to Indian Island. There you
will hold yourself at the disposal of my client."
Lombard had said abruptly:
"For how long?"
"Not longer than a week at most."
Fingering his small moustache, Captain Lombard said:
"You understand I can't undertake anything illegal?"
He had darted a very sharp glance at the other as he had spoken. There had been
a very faint smile on the thick Semitic lips of Mr. Morris as he answered gravely:
"If anything illegal is proposed, you will, of course, be at perfect liberty to
withdraw."
Damn the smooth little brute, he had smiled! It was as though he knew very well
that in Lombard
Lombard
By Jove, he
away
with it! There wasn
No, there wasn
enjoy himself at Indian Island...
IV
In a nonsmoking carriage Miss Emily Brent sat very upright as was her custom.
She was sixtyfive and she did not approve of lounging. Her father, a Colonel of
the old school, had been particular about deportment.
The present generation was shamelessly lax in their carriage, and in every
other way...
Enveloped in an aura of righteousness and unyielding principles, Miss Brent sat
in her crowded thirdclass carriage and triumphed over its discomfort and its
heat. Every one made such a fuss over things nowadays! They wanted injections
before they had teeth pulled they took drugs if they couldn
easy chairs and cushions and the girls allowed their figures to slop about anyhow
and lay about half naked on the beaches in summer.
Miss Brent
people.
She remembered last year
quite different. Indian Island...
Mentally she reread the letter which she had already read so many times.
Dear Miss Brent,
I do hope you remember me? We were together at Bellhaven Guest House in
August some years ago, and we seemed to have so much in common.
I am starting a guest house of my own on an island off the coast of Devon. I
think there is really an opening for a place where there is good plain cooking and
a nice oldfashioned type of person. None of this nudity and gramophones half
the night. I shall be very glad if you could see your way to spending your
summer
holiday on Indian Island quite free as my guest. Would early in August suit
you? Perhaps the 8th.
Yours sincerely.
U.N.
What was the name? The signature was rather difficult to read. Emily Brent
thought impatiently: "So many people write their signatures quite illegibly."
She let her mind run back over the people at Bellhaven. She had been there two
summers running. There had been that nice middleaged woman Mrs. Mrs.
now what was her name? her father had been a Canon. And there had been a
Miss Olton Ormen No, surely it was Oliver! Yes Oliver.
Indian Island! There had been things in the paper about Indian Island
something about a film star or was it an American millionaire?
Of course often those places went very cheap islands didn
thought the idea was romantic but when they came to live there they realized the
disadvantages and were only too glad to sell.
Emily Brent thought to herself: "I shall be getting a free holiday at any rate."
With her income so much reduced and so many dividends not being paid, that
was indeed something to take into consideration. If only she could remember a
little more about Mrs. or was it Miss Oliver?
V
General Macarthur looked out of the carriage window. The train was just coming
into Exeter where he had to change. Damnable, these slow branch line trains!
This place, Indian Island, was really no distance at all as the crow flies.
He hadn
apparently and of Johnny Dyer
One or two of your old cronies are coming would like to have a talk over old
times.
Well, he
rather lighting shy of him. All owing to that damned rumour! By God, it was
pretty hard nearly thirty years ago now! Armstrong had talked, he supposed.
Damned young pup! What did he know about it? Oh, well, no good brooding
about
these things! One fancied things sometimes fancied a fellow was looking at you
queerly.
This Indian Island now, he
Looked as though there might be something in the rumour that the Admiralty or
the War Office or the Air Force had got hold of it...
Young Elmer Robson, the American millionaire, had actually built the place.
Spent thousands on it, so it was said. Every mortal luxury...
Exeter! And an hour to wait! And he didn
VI
Dr. Armstrong was driving his Morris across Salisbury Plain. He was very
tired...
Success had its penalties. There had been a time when he had sat in his
consulting room in Harley Street, correctly apparelled, surrounded with the most
uptodate appliances and the most luxurious furnishings and waited waited
through the empty days for his venture to succeed or fail...
Well, it had succeeded! He
good man at his job but that wasn
well. And he
patients
women with money and position and word had got about. "You ought to try
Armstrong quite a young man but so clever Pam had been to all sorts of
people for years and he put his finger on the trouble at once!" The ball had
started rolling.
And now Dr. Armstrong had definitely arrived. His days were full. He had little
leisure. And so, on this August morning, he was glad that he was leaving
London
and going to be for some days on an island off the Devon coast. Not that it was
exactly a holiday. The letter he had received had been rather vague in its terms,
but there was nothing vague about the accompanying cheque. A whacking fee.
These Owens must be rolling in money. Some little difficulty, it seemed, a
husband who was worried about his wife
without her being alarmed. She wouldn
Nerves! The doctor
was good for business, after all. Half the women who consulted him had nothing
the matter with them but boredom, but they wouldn
so! And one could usually find something.
"A slightly uncommon condition of the some long word nothing at all serious
but it just needs putting right. A simple treatment."
Well, medicine was mostly faithhealing when it came to it. And he had a good
manner he could inspire hope and belief.
Lucky that he
no, fifteen years ago. It had been a near thing, that! He
The shock had pulled him together. He
been a near thing though...
With a devastating carsplitting blast on the horn an enormous Super Sports
Dalmain car rushed past him at eighty miles an hour. Dr. Armstrong nearly went
into the hedge. One of these young fools who tore round the country. He hated
them. That had been a near shave, too. Damned young fool!
VII
Tony Marston, roaring down into Mere, thought to himself:
"The amount of cars crawling about the roads is frightful. Always something
blocking your way. And they will drive in the middle of the road! Pretty hopeless
driving in England, anyway... Not like France where you really could let out..."
Should he stop here for a drink, or push on? Heaps of time! Only another
hundred miles and a bit to go. He
This island place ought to be rather good fun if the weather lasted. Who were
these Owens, he wondered? Rich and stinking, probably. Badger was rather good
at nosing people like that out. Of course, he had to, poor old chap, with no
money of his own...
Hope they
their money and weren
bought Indian Island wasn
crowd.
Oh, well, he supposed there
Coming out of the Hotel, he stretched himself, yawned, looked up at the blue sky
and climbed into the Dalmain.
Several young women looked at him admiringly his six feet of wellproportioned
body, his crisp hair, tanned face, and intensely blue eyes.
He let in the clutch with a roar and leapt up the narrow street. Old men and
errand boys jumped for safety. The latter looked after the car admiringly.
Anthony Marston proceeded on his triumphal progress.
VIII
Mr. Blore was in the slow train from Plymouth. There was only one other person
in his carriage, an elderly seafaring gentleman with a bleary eye. At the present
moment he had dropped off to sleep.
Mr. Blore was writing carefully in a little notebook.
"That's the lot," he muttered to himself. "Emily Brent, Vera Claythorne, Dr.
Armstrong, Anthony Marston, old Justice Wargrave, Philip Lombard, General
Macarthur, C.M.G., D.S.O. Manservant and wife: Mr. and Mrs. Rogers."
He closed the notebook and put it back in his pocket. He glanced over at the
corner and the slumbering man.
"Had one over the eight." diagnosed Mr. Blore accurately. He went over things
carefully and conscientiously in his mind.
"Job ought to be easy enough," he ruminated. "Don't see how I can slip up on it.
Hope I look all right."
He stood up and scrutinized himself anxiously in the glass. The face reflected
there was of a slightly military cast with a moustache. There was very little
expression in it. The eyes were grey and set rather close together.
"Might be a Major," said Mr. Blore. "No, I forgot. There's that old military gent.
He'd spot me at once.
"South Africa," said Mr. Blore, "that
anything to do with South Africa, and I
I can talk about it all right."
Fortunately there were all sorts and types of colonials. As a man of means from
South Africa, Mr. Blore felt that he could enter into any society unchallenged.
Indian Island. He remembered Indian Island as a boy... Smelly sort of rock
covered with gulls stood about a mile from the coast. It had got its name from
its resemblance to a man's head an American Indian profile.
Funny idea to go and build a house on it! Awful in bad weather! But millionaires
were full of whims!
The old man in the corner woke up and said:
"You can
Mr. Blore said soothingly, "That's right. You can't."
The old man hiccuped twice and said plaintively:
"There's a squall coming."
Mr. Blore said:
"No, no, mate, it's a lovely day."
The old man said angrily:
"There's a squall ahead. I can smell it."
"Maybe you're right," said Mr. Blore pacifically.
The train stopped at a station and the old fellow rose unsteadily.
"Thish where I get out." He fumbled with the window. Mr. Blore helped him.
The old man stood in the doorway. He raised a solemn hand and blinked his
bleary eyes.
"Watch and pray," he said. "Watch and pray. The day of judgement is at hand."
He collapsed through the doorway onto the platform. From a recumbent position
he looked up at Mr. Blore and said with immense dignity:
"I'm talking to you, young man. The day of judgement is very close at hand."
Subsiding onto his seat Mr. Blore thought to himself:
"He's nearer the day of judgement than I am!"
But there, as it happens, he was wrong...
Chapter 2
Outside Oakbridge station a little group of people stood in momentary
uncertainty. Behind them stood porters with suitcases. One of these called "Jim!"
The driver of one of the taxis stepped forward.
"You'm for Indian Island, maybe? he asked in a soft Devon voice. Four voices
gave assent and then immediately afterwards gave quick surreptitious glances
at each other.
The driver said, addressing his remarks to Mr. Justice Wargrave as the senior
member of the party:
"There are two taxis here, sir. One of them must wait till the slow train from
Exeter gets in a matter of five minutes there
Perhaps one of you wouldn
way."
Vera Claythorne, her own secretarial position clear in her mind, spoke at once.
"I
and voice had that slight suggestion of command in it that comes from having
occupied a position of authority. She might have been directing which tennis sets
the girls were to play in.
Miss Brent said stiffly, "Thank you," bent her head and entered one of the taxis,
the door of which the driver was holding open.
Mr. Justice Wargrave followed her.
Captain Lombard said:
"I'll wait with Miss "
"Claythorne," said Vera.
"My name is Lombard, Philip Lombard."
The porters were piling luggage on the taxi. Inside, Mr. Justice Wargrave said
with due legal caution:
"Beautiful weather we are having."
Miss Brent said:
"Yes, indeed."
A very distinguished old gentleman, she thought to herself. Quite unlike the
usual type of man in seaside guest houses. Evidently Mrs. or Miss Oliver had
good connections...
Mr. Justice Wargrave inquired:
"Do you know this part of the world well?"
"I have been to Cornwall and to Torquay, but this is my first visit to this part of
Devon."
The judge said:
"I also am unacquainted with this part of the world."
The taxi drove off.
The driver of the second taxi said:
"Like to sit inside while you're waiting?"
Vera said decisively:
"Not at all."
Captain Lombard smiled.
He said:
"That sunny wall looks more attractive. Unless you'd rather go inside the
station?"
"No, indeed. It's so delightful to get out of that stuffy train."
He answered:
"Yes, travelling by train is rather trying in this weather."
Vera said conventionally:
"I do hope it lasts the weather, I mean. Our English summers are so treacherous."
With a slight lack of originality Lombard asked:
"Do you know this part of the world well?"
"No, I've never been here before." She added quickly, conscientiously
determined to make her position clear at once, "I haven't even seen my employer
yet."
"Your employer?"
"Yes, I'm Mrs. Owen's secretary."
"Oh, I see." Just imperceptibly his manner changed. It was slightly more assured
easier in tone. He said: "Isn't that rather unusual?"
Vera laughed.
"Oh, no, I don't think so. Her own secretary was suddenly taken ill and she wired
to an agency for a substitute and they sent me."
"So that was it. And suppose you don't like the post when you've got there?"
Vera laughed again.
"Oh, it's only temporary a holiday post. I've got a permanent job at a girls'
school. As a matter of fact I'm frightfully thrilled at the prospect of seeing Indian
Island. There's been such a lot about it in the papers. Is it really very
fascinating?"
Lombard said:
"I don't know. I haven't seen it."
"Oh, really? The Owens are frightfully keen on it, I suppose. What are they like?
Do tell me."
Lombard thought: "Awkward, this am I supposed to have met them or not?" He
said quickly:
"There's a wasp crawling up your arm. No keep quite still."
He made a convincing pounce. "There. It's gone!"
"Oh, thank you. There are a lot of wasps about this summer."
"Yes, I suppose it's the heat. Who are we waiting for, do you know?"
"I haven't the least idea."
The loud drawn out scream of an approaching train was heard. Lombard said:
"That will be the train now."
II
It was a tall soldierly old man who appeared at the exit from the platform. His
grey hair was clipped close and he had a neatly trimmed white moustache.
His porter, staggering slightly under the weight of the solid leather suitcase,
indicated Vera and Lombard.
Vera came forward in a competent manner. She said:
"I am Mrs. Owen's secretary. There is a car here waiting." She added: "This is
Mr. Lombard."
The faded blue eyes, shrewd in spite of their age, sized up Lombard. For a
moment a judgement showed in them had there been any one to read it.
"Goodlooking fellow. Something just a little wrong about him..."
The three of them got into the waiting taxi. They drove through the sleepy streets
of little Oakbridge and continued about a mile on the main Plymouth
road. Then they plunged into a maze of cross country lanes, steep, green and
narrow.
General Macarthur said:
"Don't know this part of Devon at all. My little place is in East Devon just on the
borderline of Dorset."
Vera said:
"It really is lovely here. The hills and the red earth and everything so green and
luscious looking."
Philip Lombard said critically:
"It's a bit shut in... I like open country myself. Where you can see what's
coming..."
General Macarthur said to him:
"You've seen a bit of the world, I fancy?"
Lombard shrugged his shoulders disparagingly.
"I've knocked about here and there, sir."
He thought to himself: "He'll ask me now if I was old enough to be in the War.
These old boys always do."
But General Macarthur did not mention the War.
Ill
They came up over a steep hill and down a zigzag track to Sticklehaven a mere
cluster of cottages with a fishing boat or two drawn up on the beach.
Illuminated by the setting sun, they had their first glimpse of Indian Island
jutting up out of the sea to the south.
Vera said, surprised:
"It's a long way out."
She had pictured it differently, close to shore, crowned with a beautiful white
house. But there was no house visible, only the boldly silhouetted rock with its
faint resemblance to a giant Indian
She shivered faintly.
Outside a little inn, the Seven Stars, three people were sitting. There was the
hunched elderly figure of the judge, the upright form of Miss Brent, and a third
man a big bluff man who came forward and introduced himself.
"Thought we might as well wait for you," he said. "Make one trip of it. Allow
me to introduce myself. Name's Davis. Natal, South Africa's my natal spot, ha,
ha!"
He laughed breezily.
Mr. Justice Wargrave looked at him with active malevolence. He seemed to be
wishing that he could order the court to be cleared. Miss Emily Brent was clearly
not sure if she liked colonials.
"Any one care for a little nip before we embark?" asked Mr. Davis hospitably.
Nobody assenting to this proposition, Mr. Davis turned and held up a finger.
"Mustn't delay, then. Our good host and hostess will be expecting us," he said.
He might have noticed that a curious constraint came over the other members of
the party. It was as though the mention of their host and hostess had a curiously
paralyzing effect upon the guests.
In response to Davis
wall against which he was leaning and came up to them. His rolling gait
proclaimed him a man of the sea. He had a weatherbeaten face and dark eyes
with a slightly evasive expression. He spoke in his soft Devon voice.
"Will you be ready to be starting for the island, ladies and gentlemen? The boat's
waiting. There's two gentlemen coming by car, but Mr. Owen's orders was not to
wait for them as they might arrive at any time."
The party got up. Their guide led them along a small stone jetty. Alongside it a
motor boat was lying.
Emily Brent said:
"That's a very small boat."
The boat
"She's a fine boat, that, Ma'am. You could go to Plymouth in her as easy as
winking."
Mr. Justice Wargrave said sharply:
"There are a good many of us."
"She'd take double the number, sir."
Philip Lombard said in his pleasant easy voice:
"It's quite all right. Glorious weather no swell."
Rather doubtfully, Miss Brent permitted herself to be helped into the boat. The
others followed suit. There was as yet no fraternizing among the party. It was as
though each member of it was puzzled by the other members.
They were just about to cast loose when their guide paused, boathook in hand.
Down the steep track into the village a car was coming. A car so fantastically
powerful, so superlatively beautiful that it had all the nature of an apparition. At
the wheel sat a young man, his hair blown back by the wind. In the blaze of the
evening light he looked, not a man, but a young God, a Hero God out of some
Northern Saga.
He touched the horn and a great roar of sound echoed from the rocks of the bay.
It was a fantastic moment. In it, Anthony Marston seemed to be something more
than mortal. Afterwards, more than one of those present remembered that
moment.
IV
Fred Narracott sat by the engine thinking to himself that this was a queer lot.
Not at all his idea of what Mr. Owen
something altogether more classy. Togged up women and gentlemen in yachting
costume and all very rich and important looking.
Not at all like Mr. Elmer Robson
lips as he remembered the millionaire
and the drink they
This Mr. Owen must be a very different sort of gentleman. Funny it was, thought
Fred, that he
down here yet, he hadn
Instructions always very clear and payment prompt, but it was odd, all the same.
The papers said there was some mystery about Owen. Mr. Narracott agreed with
them.
Perhaps, after all, it was Miss Gabrielle Turl who had bought the island. But that
theory departed from him as he surveyed his passengers. Not this lot none
of them looked likely to have anything to do with a film star.
He summed them up dispassionately.
One old maid the sour kind he knew them well enough. She was a Tartar, he
could bet. Old military gentleman real Army by the look of him. Nice looking
young lady but the ordinary kind, not glamourous no Hollywood touch about
her. That bluff cheery gent he wasn
that
looking gentleman with the quick eyes, he was a queer one, he was. Just possible
he might have something to do with the pictures.
No, there was only one satisfactory passenger in the boat. The last gentleman,
the one who had arrived in the car (and what a car! A car such as had never been
seen in Sticklehaven before. Must have cost hundreds and hundreds, a car like
that).
He was the right kind. Born to money, he was. If the party had been all like
him... he
Queer business when you came to think of it the whole thing was queer very
queer...
V
The boat churned its way round the rock. Now at last the house came into view.
The south side of the island was quite different It shelved gently down to the sea.
The house was there facing south low and square and modernlooking with
rounded windows letting in all the light.
An exciting house a house that lived up to expectation!
Fred Narracott shut off the engine, they nosed their way gently into a little
natural inlet between rocks.
Philip Lombard said sharply:
"Must be difficult to land here in dirty weather."
Fred Narracott said cheerfully:
"Can't land on Indian Island when there's a southeasterly. Sometimes 'tis cut off
for a week or more."
Vera Claythorne thought:
"The catering must be very difficult. That's the worst of an island. All the
domestic problems are so worrying."
The boat grated against the rocks. Fred Narracott jumped out and he and
Lombard helped the others to alight. Narracott made the boat fast to a ring in
the rock. Then he led the way up steps cut in the rock.
General Macarthur said:
"Ha, delightful spot!"
But he felt uneasy. Damned odd sort of place.
As the party ascended the steps, and came out on a terrace above, their spirits
revived. In the open doorway of the house a correct butler was awaiting them,
and something about his gravity reassured them. And then the house itself was
really most attractive, the view from the terrace magnificent...
The butler came forward bowing slightly. He was a tall lank man, greyhaired
and very respectable. He said:
"Will you come this way, please?"
In the wide hall drinks stood ready. Rows of bottles. Anthony Marston
cheered up a little. He
his lot! What could old Badger have been thinking about to let him in for this?
However the drinks were all right. Plenty of ice, too.
What was it the butler chap was saying?
"Mr. Owen unfortunately delayed unable to get here till tomorrow.
Instructions everything they wanted if they would like to go to their rooms?...
dinner would be at 8 o'clock..."
VI
Vera had followed Mrs. Rogers upstairs. The woman had thrown open a door at
the end of a passage and Vera had walked into a delightful bedroom with a big
window that opened wide upon the sea and another looking east. She uttered a
quick exclamation of pleasure.
Mrs. Rogers was saying:
"I hope you've got everything you want, Miss?"
Vera looked round. Her luggage had been brought up and had been unpacked. At
one side of the room a door stood open into a pale blue tiled bathroom.
She said quickly:
"Yes, everything, I think."
"You'll ring the bell if you want anything, Miss?"
Mrs. Rogers had a flat monotonous voice. Vera looked at her curiously. What a
white bloodless ghost of a woman! Very respectable looking, with her hair
dragged back from her face and her black dress. Queer light eyes that shifted the
whole time from place to place.
Vera thought:
"She looks frightened of her own shadow."
Yes, that was it frightened!
She looked like a woman who walked in mortal fear...
A little shiver passed down Vera
She said pleasantly:
"I'm Mrs. Owen's new secretary. I expect you know that."
Mrs. Rogers said:
"No, Miss, I don't know anything. Just a list of the ladies and gentlemen and
what rooms they were to have."
Vera said:
"Mrs. Owen didn't mention me?"
Mrs. Rogers
"I haven't seen Mrs. Owen not yet. We only came here two days ago."
"Extraordinary people, these Owens," thought Vera. Aloud she said:
"What staff is there here?"
"Just me and Rogers, Miss."
Vera frowned. Eight people in the house ten with the host and hostess and
only one married couple to do for them.
Mrs. Rogers said:
"I'm a good cook and Rogers is handy about the house. I didn't know, of course,
that there was to be such a large party."
Vera said:
"But you can manage?"
"Oh, yes, Miss, I can manage. If there's to be large parties often perhaps Mrs.
Owen could get extra help in."
Vera said, "I expect so."
Mrs. Rogers turned to go. Her feet moved noiselessly over the ground. She
drifted
from the room like a shadow.
Vera went over to the window and sat down on the window seat. She was faintly
disturbed. Everything somehow was a little queer. The absence of the Owens,
the pale ghostlike Mrs. Rogers. And the guests! Yes, the guests were queer too.
An oddly assorted party.
Vera thought:
"I wish I'd seen the Owens... I wish I knew what they were like."
She got up and walked restlessly about the room.
A perfect bedroom decorated throughout in the modern style. Offwhite rugs on
the gleaming parquet floor faintly tinted walls a long mirror surrounded by
lights. A mantelpiece bare of ornaments save for an enormous block of white
marble shaped like a bear, a piece of modern sculpture in which was inset a
clock. Over it, in a gleaming chromium frame, was a big square of parchment a
poem.
She stood in front of the fireplace and read it. It was the old nursery rhyme that
she remembered from her childhood days.
Ten little Indian boys went out to dine;
One choked his little self and then there were nine.
Nine little Indian boys sat up very late;
One overslept himself and then there were eight.
Eight little Indian boys travelling in Devon;
One said he
Seven little Indian boys chopping up sticks;
One chopped himself in halves and then there were six.
Six little Indian boys playing with a hive;
A bumblebee stung one and then there were five.
Five little Indian boys going in for law;
One got in Chancery and then there were four.
Four little Indian boys going out to sea;
A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.
Three little Indian boys walking in the Zoo;
A big bear hugged one and then there were two.
Two little Indian boys sitting in the sun;
One got frizzled up and then there was one.
One little Indian boy left all alone;
He went and hanged himself and then there were none.
Vera smiled. Of course! This was Indian Island!
She went and sat again by the window looking out to sea.
How big the sea was! From here there was no land to be seen anywhere just a
vast expanse of blue water rippling in the evening sun.
The sea... So peaceful today sometimes so cruel... The sea that dragged you
down to its depths. Drowned... Found drowned... Drowned at sea... Drowned
drowned drowned...
No, she wouldn
All that was over...
VII
Dr. Armstrong came to Indian Island just as the sun was sinking into the sea. On
the way across he had chatted to the boatman a local man. He was anxious to
find out a little about these people who owned Indian Island, but the man
Narracott seemed curiously ill informed, or perhaps unwilling to talk.
So Dr. Armstrong chatted instead of the weather and of fishing.
He was tired after his long motor drive. His eyeballs ached. Driving west you
were driving against the sun.
Yes, he was very tired. The sea and perfect peace that was what he needed. He
would like, really, to take a long holiday. But he couldn
could afford it financially, of course, but he couldn
soon forgotten nowadays. No, now that he had arrived, he must keep his nose to
the grindstone.
He thought:
"All the same, this evening, I'll imagine to myself that I'm not going back that
I've done with London and Harley Street and all the rest of it."
There was something magical about an island the mere word suggested fantasy.
You lost touch with the world an island was a world of its own. A world,
perhaps, from which you might never return.
He thought:
"I'm leaving my ordinary life behind me."
And, smiling to himself, he began to make plans, fantastic plans for the future.
He was still smiling when he walked up the rock cut steps.
In a chair on the terrace an old gentleman was sitting and the sight of him was
vaguely familiar to Dr. Armstrong. Where had he seen that froglike face, that
tortoiselike neck, that hunched up attitude yes, and those pale shrewd little
eyes? Of course old Wargrave. He
looked half asleep, but was shrewd as could be when it came to a point of law.
Had great power with a jury it was said he could make their minds up for them
any day of the week. He
hanging judge, some people said.
Funny place to meet him... here out of the world.
VIII
Mr. Justice Wargrave thought to himself:
"Armstrong? Remember him in the witness box. Very correct and cautious. All
doctors are damned fools. Harley Street ones are the worst of the lot." And his
mind dwelt malevolently on a recent interview he had had with a suave
personage in that very street.
Aloud he grunted:
"Drinks are in the hall."
Dr. Armstrong said:
"I must go and pay my respects to my host and hostess."
Mr. Justice Wargrave closed his eyes again, looking decidedly reptilian, and said:
"You can't do that."
Dr. Armstrong was startled.
"Why not?"
The judge said:
"No host and hostess. Very curious state of affairs. Don't understand this place."
Dr. Armstrong stared at him for a minute. When he thought the old gentleman
had actually gone to sleep, Wargrave said suddenly:
"D'you know Constance Culmington?"
"Er no, I'm afraid I don't."
"It's of no consequence," said the judge. "Very vague woman and practically
unreadable handwriting. I was just wondering if I'd come to the wrong house."
Dr. Armstrong shook his head and went on up to the house.
Mr. Justice Wargrave reflected on the subject of Constance Culmington.
Undependable like all women.
His mind went on to the two women in the house, the tightlipped old maid and
the girl. He didn
if you counted the Rogers woman. Odd creature, she looked scared to death.
Respectable pair and knew their job...
Rogers coming out on the terrace that minute, the Judge asked him:
"Is Lady Constance Culmington expected, do you know?"
Rogers stared at him.
"No, sir, not to my knowledge."
The judge
He thought:
"Indian Island, eh? There's a nigger in the woodpile."
IX
Anthony Marston was in his bath. He luxuriated in the steaming water. His
limbs had felt cramped after his long drive. Very few thoughts passed through
his head. Anthony was a creature of sensation and of action.
He thought to himself:
"Must go through with it, I suppose," and thereafter dismissed everything from
his mind.
Warm steaming water tired limbs presently a shave a cocktail dinner.
And after ?
X
Mr. Blore was tying his tie. He wasn
Did he look all right? He supposed so.
Nobody had been exactly cordial to him... Funny the way they all eyed each
other
as though they knew...
Well, it was up to him. He didn
He glanced up at the framed nursery rhyme over the mantelpiece.
Neat touch, having that there!
He thought:
"Remember this island when I was a kid. Never thought I'd be doing this sort of
a job in a house here. Good thing, perhaps, that one can't foresee the future..."
XI
General Macarthur was frowning to himself. Damn it all, the whole thing was
deuced odd! Not at all what he
For two pins he
But the motor boat had gone back to the mainland.
He
That fellow Lombard now, he was a queer chap.
Not straight. He
XII
As the gong sounded, Philip Lombard came out of his room and walked to the
head of the stairs. He moved like a panther, smoothly and noiselessly. There was
something of the panther about him altogether. A beast of prey pleasant to the
eye.
He was smiling to himself.
A week eh?
He was going to enjoy that week.
XIII
In her bedroom, Emily Brent, dressed in black silk ready for dinner, was reading
her Bible.
Her lips moved as she followed the words:
"The heathen are sunk down in the pit that they made: in the net which they hid
is their own foot taken. The Lord is known by the judgement which he
executeth:
the wicked is snared in the work of his own hands. The wicked shall be turned
into hell."
Her tight lips closed. She shut the Bible.
Rising, she pinned a cairngorm brooch at her neck, and went down to dinner.
Chapter 3
Dinner was drawing to a close.
The food had been good, the wine perfect. Rogers waited well.
Every one was in better spirits. They had begun to talk to each other with more
freedom and intimacy.
Mr. Justice Wargrave, mellowed by the excellent port, was being amusing in a
caustic fashion; Dr. Armstrong and Tony Marston were listening to him. Miss
Brent chatted to General Macarthur; they had discovered some mutual friends.
Vera Claythorne was asking Mr. Davis intelligent questions about South Africa.
Mr. Davis was quite fluent on the subject. Lombard listened to the conversation.
Once or twice he looked up quickly, and his eyes narrowed. Now and then his
eyes played round the table, studying the others.
Anthony Marston said suddenly:
"Quaint, these things, aren't they?"
In the centre of the round table, on a circular glass stand, were some little china
figures.
"Indians." said Tony. "Indian Island. I suppose that's the idea."
Vera leaned forward.
"I wonder. How many are there? Ten?"
"Yes ten there are."
Vera cried:
"What fun! They're the ten little Indian boys of the nursery rhyme, I suppose. In
my bedroom the rhyme is framed and hung up over the mantelpiece."
Lombard said:
"In my room, too."
"And mine."
"And mine."
Everybody joined the chorus. Vera said:
"It's an amusing idea, isn't it?"
Mr. Justice Wargrave grunted:
"Remarkably childish," and helped himself to port.
Emily Brent looked at Vera Claythorne. Vera Claythorne looked at Miss Brent.
The two women rose.
In the drawingroom, the French windows were open onto the terrace and the
sound of the sea murmuring against the rocks came up to them.
Emily Brent said: "Pleasant sound."
Vera said sharply: "I hate it."
Miss Brent
composedly:
"I don't think this place would be very agreeable in a storm."
Emily Brent agreed.
"I've no doubt the house is shut up in winter," she said. "You'd never get servants
to stay here for one thing."
Vera murmured:
"It must be difficult to get servants anyway."
Emily Brent said:
"Mrs. Oliver has been lucky to get these two. The woman's a good cook."
Vera thought:
"Funny how elderly people always get names wrong."
She said:
"Yes, I think Mrs. Owen has been very lucky indeed."
Emily Brent had brought a small piece of embroidery out of her bag. Now, as she
was about to thread her needle, she paused.
She said sharply:
"Owen? Did you say Owen?"
"Yes."
Emily Brent said sharply:
"I've never met any one called Owen in my life."
Vera stared.
"But surely"
She did not finish her sentence. The door opened and the men joined them.
Rogers followed them into the room with the coffee tray.
The judge came and sat down by Emily Brent. Armstrong came up to Vera. Tony
Marston strolled to the open window. Blore studied with nanve surprise a
statuette in brass wondering perhaps if its bizarre angularities were really
supposed to be the female figure. General Macarthur stood with his back to the
mantelpiece. He pulled at his little white moustache. That had been a damned
good dinner! His spirits were rising. Lombard turned over the pages of Punch
that lay with other papers on a table by the wall.
Rogers went round with the coffee tray. The coffee was good really black and
very hot.
The whole party had dined well. They were satisfied with themselves and with
life. The hands of the clock pointed to twenty minutes past nine. There was a
silence a comfortable replete silence.
Into that silence came The Voice. Without warning, inhuman, penetrating...
"Ladies and gentlemen! Silence, please!"
Every one was startled. They looked round at each other, at the walls. Who was
speaking?
The Voice went on a high clear voice.
You are charged with the following indictments:
Edward George Armstrong, that you did upon the 14th day of March, 1925,
cause the death of Louisa Mary Clees.
Emily Caroline Brent, that upon the 5th November, 1931, you were responsible
for the death of Beatrice Taylor.
William Henry Blore, that you brought about the death of James Stephen Landor
on October 10th, 1928.
Vera Elizabeth Claythorne, that on the 11th day of August, 1935, you killed
Cyril
Ogilvie Hamilton.
Philip Lombard, that upon a date in February, 1932, you were guilty of the death
of twentyone men, members of an East African tribe.
John Gordon Macarthur, that on the 4th of January, 1917, you deliberately sent
your wife
Anthony James Marston, that upon the 14th day of November last, you were
guilty of the murder of John and Lucy Combes.
Thomas Rogers and Ethel Rogers, that on the 6th of May, 1929, you brought
about the death of Jennifer Brady.
Lawrence John Wargrave, that upon the 10th day of June, 1930, you were guilty
of the murder of Edward Seton.
Prisoners at the bar, have you anything to say in your defence?
II
The Voice had stopped.
There was a moment
dropped the coffee tray!
At the same moment, from somewhere outside the room there came a scream
and
the sound of a thud.
Lombard was the first to move. He leapt to the door and flung it open. Outside,
lying in a huddled mass, was Mrs. Rogers.
Lombard called:
"Marston."
Anthony sprang to help him. Between them, they lifted up the woman and
carried her into the drawingroom.
Dr. Armstrong came across quickly. He helped them to lift her onto the sofa and
bent over her. He said quickly:
"It's nothing. She's fainted, that's all. She'll be round in a minute."
Lombard said to Rogers:
"Get some brandy."
Rogers, his face white, his hands shaking, murmured:
"Yes, sir," and slipped quickly out of the room.
Vera cried out:
"Who was that speaking? Where was he? It sounded it sounded "
General Macarthur spluttered out:
"What's going on here? What kind of a practical joke was that?"
His hand was shaking. His shoulders sagged. He looked suddenly ten years
older.
Blore was mopping his face with a handkerchief.
Only Mr. Justice Wargrave and Miss Brent seemed comparatively unmoved.
Emily Brent sat upright, her head held high. In both cheeks was a spot of hard
colour. The judge sat in his habitual pose, his head sunk down into his neck.
With one hand he gently scratched his ear. Only his eyes were active, darting
round and round the room, puzzled, alert with intelligence.
Again it was Lombard who acted. Armstrong being busy with the collapsed
woman, Lombard was free once more to take the initiative.
He said:
"That voice? It sounded as though it were in the room."
Vera cried:
"Who was it? Who was it? It wasn't one of us."
Like the judge, Lombard
minute on the open window, then he shook his head decisively. Suddenly his
eyes
lighted up. He moved forward swiftly to where a door near the fireplace led into
an adjoining room.
With a swift gesture, he caught the handle and flung the door open. He passed
through and immediately uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.
He said:
"Ah, here we are."
The others crowded after him. Only Miss Brent remained alone sitting erect in
her chair.
Inside the second room a table had been brought up close to the wall which
adjoined the drawingroom. On the table was a gramophone an oldfashioned
type with a large trumpet attached. The mouth of the trumpet was against the
wall, and Lombard, pushing it aside, indicated where two or three small holes
had been unobtrusively bored through the wall.
Adjusting the gramophone he replaced the needle on the record and immediately
they heard again: "You are charged with the following indictments "
Vera cried:
"Turn it off! Turn it off! It's horrible!"
Lombard obeyed.
Dr. Armstrong said, with a sigh of relief:
"A disgraceful and heartless practical joke, I suppose."
The small clear voice of Mr. Justice Wargrave murmured:
"So you think it's a joke, do you?"
The doctor stared at him.
"What else could it be?"
The hand of the judge gently stroked his upper lip.
He said:
"At the moment I'm not prepared to give an opinion."
Anthony Marston broke in. He said:
"Look here, there's one thing you've forgotten. Who the devil turned the thing on
and set it going?"
Wargrave murmured:
"Yes, I think we must inquire into that."
He led the way back into the drawingroom. The others followed.
Rogers had just come in with a glass of brandy. Miss Brent was bending over the
moaning form of Mrs. Rogers.
Adroitly Rogers slipped between the two women.
"Allow me, Madam, I'll speak to her. Ethel Ethel it's all right. All right, do you
hear? Pull yourself together."
Mrs. Rogers
round and round the ring of faces. There was urgency in Rogers
"Pull yourself together, Ethel."
Dr. Armstrong spoke to her soothingly.
"You'll be all right now, Mrs. Rogers. Just a nasty turn."
She said:
"Did I faint, sir?"
"Yes."
"It was The Voice that awful voice like a judgement "
Her face turned green again, her eyelids fluttered.
Dr. Armstrong said sharply:
"Where's that brandy?"
Rogers had put it down on a little table. Some one handed it to the doctor and he
bent over the gasping woman with it.
"Drink this, Mrs. Rogers."
She drank, choking a little and gasping. The spirit did her good. The colour
returned to her face. She said:
"I'm all right now. It just gave me a turn."
Rogers said quickly:
"Of course it did. It gave me a turn too. Fair made me drop that tray. Wicked lies,
it was! I'd like to know "
He was interrupted. It was only a cough a dry little cough but it had the effect of
stopping him in full cry. He stared at Mr. Justice Wargrave and the latter
coughed again. Then he said:
"Who put that record on the gramophone? Was it you, Rogers?"
Rogers cried:
"I didn't know what it was. Before God, I didn't know what it was, sir. If I had I'd
never have done it."
The judge said drily:
"That is probably true. But I think you'd better explain, Rogers."
The butler wiped his face with a handkerchief. He said earnestly:
"I was just obeying orders, sir, that's all."
"Whose orders?"
"Mr. Owen's."
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"Let me get this quite clear. Mr. Owen's orders were what exactly?"
Rogers said:
"I was to put a record on the gramophone. I'd find the record in the drawer and
my wife was to start the gramophone when I'd gone into the drawingroom with
the coffee tray."
The judge murmured:
"Avery remarkable story."
Rogers cried:
"It's the truth, sir. I swear to God it's the truth. I didn't know what it was not for
moment. It had a name on it I thought it was just a piece of music."
Wargrave looked at Lombard.
"Was there a title on it?"
Lombard nodded. He grinned suddenly, showing his white pointed teeth.
He said:
"Quite right, sir. It was entitled Swan Song..."
Ill
General Macarthur broke out suddenly. He exclaimed:
"The whole thing is preposterous preposterous! Slinging accusations about like
this! Something must be done about it. This fellow Owen whoever he is "
Emily Brent interrupted. She said sharply:
"That's just it, who is he?"
The judge interposed. He spoke with the authority that a lifetime in the courts
had given him. He said:
"That is exactly what we must go into very carefully. I should suggest that you
get your wife to bed first of all, Rogers. Then come back here."
"Yes, sir."
Dr. Armstrong said:
"I'll give you a hand, Rogers."
Leaning on the two men, Mrs. Rogers tottered out of the room. When they had
gone Tony Marston said:
"Don't know about you, sir, but I could do with a drink."
Lombard said:
"I agree."
Tony said:
"I'll go and forage."
He went out of the room.
He returned a second or two later.
"Found them all waiting on a tray outside ready to be brought in."
He set down his burden carefully. The next minute or two was spent in
dispensing drinks. General Macarthur had a stiff whiskey and so did the judge.
Every one felt the need of a stimulant. Only Emily Brent demanded and obtained
a glass of water.
Dr. Armstrong reentered the room.
"She's all right," he said. "I've given her a sedative to take. What's that, a drink? I
could do with one."
Several of the men refilled their glasses. A moment or two later Rogers reentered
the room.
Mr. Justice Wargrave took charge of the proceedings. The room became an
impromptu court of law.
The judge said:
"Now then, Rogers, we must get to the bottom of this. Who is this Mr. Owen?"
Rogers stared.
"He owns this place, sir."
"I am aware of that fact. What I want you to tell me is what you yourself know
about the man."
Rogers shook his head.
"I can't say, sir. You see, I've never seen him."
There was a faint stir in the room.
General Macarthur said:
"You've never seen him? What d'yer mean?"
"We've only been here just under a week, sir, my wife and I. We were engaged
by letter, through an agency. The Regina Agency in Plymouth."
Blore nodded.
"Old established firm," he volunteered.
Wargrave said:
"Have you got that letter?"
"The letter engaging us? No, sir. I didn't keep it."
"Go on with your story. You were engaged, as you say, by letter."
"Yes, sir. We were to arrive on a certain day. We did. Everything was in order
here. Plenty of food in stock and everything very nice. Just needed dusting and
that."
"What next?"
"Nothing, sir. We got orders by letter again to prepare the rooms for a houseparty
and then yesterday by the afternoon post I got another letter from
Mr. Owen. It said he and Mrs. Owen were detained and to do the best we could
and it gave the instructions about dinner and coffee and putting on the
gramophone record."
The judge said sharply:
"Surely you've got that letter?"
"Yes, sir, I've got it here."
He produced it from a pocket. The judge took it.
"H'm," he said. "Headed Ritz Hotel and typewritten."
With a quick movement Blore was beside him.
He said:
"If you'll just let me have a look."
He twitched it out of the other
He murmured:
"Coronation machine. Quite new no defects. Ensign paper the most widely
used make. You won't get anything out of that. Might be fingerprints, but I doubt
it."
Wargrave stared at him with sudden attention.
Anthony Marston was standing beside Blore looking over his shoulder. He said:
"Got some fancy Christian names, hasn't he? Ulick Norman Owen. Quite a
mouthful."
"The old judge said with a slight start:
"I am obliged to you, Mr. Marston. You have drawn my attention to a curious
and suggestive point."
He looked round at the others and thrusting his neck forward like an angry
tortoise, he said:
"I think the time has come for us all to pool our information. It would be well, I
think, for everybody to come forward with all the information they have
regarding the owner of this house." He paused and then went on. "We are all his
guests. I think it would be profitable if each one of us were to explain exactly
how that came about."
There was a moment's pause and then Emily Brent spoke with decision.
"There
with a signature that was not very easy to read. It purported to be from a woman
I had met at a certain summer resort two or three years ago. I took the name to
be either Ogden or Oliver. I am acquainted with a Mrs. Oliver and also with a
Miss Ogden. I am quite certain that I have never met, or become friendly with,
any one of the name of Owen."
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
"You have that letter, Miss Brent?"
"Yes, I will fetch it for you."
She went away and returned a minute later with the letter.
The judge read it. He said:
"I begin to understand... Miss Claythorne?"
Vera explained the circumstances of her secretarial engagement.
The judge said:
"Marston?"
Anthony said:
"Got a wire. From a pal of mine. Badger Berkeley. Surprised me at the time
because I had an idea the old horse had gone to Norway. Told me to roll up
here."
Again Wargrave nodded. He said:
"Dr. Armstrong?"
"I was called in professionally."
"I see. You had no previous acquaintanceship with the family?"
"No. A colleague of mine was mentioned in the letter."
The judge said:
"To give verisimilitude... Yes, and that colleague, I presume, was momentarily
out of touch with you?"
"Well er yes."
Lombard, who had been staring at Blore, said suddenly:
"Look here, I
The judge lifted a hand.
"In a minute "
"But I "
"We will take one thing at a time, Mr. Lombard. We are at present inquiring into
the causes which have resulted in our being assembled here tonight. General
Macarthur?"
Pulling at his moustache, the General muttered:
"Got a letter from this fellow Owen mentioned some old pals of mine who were
to be here hoped I'd excuse informal invitation. Haven't kept the letter. I'm
afraid."
Wargrave said:
"Mr. Lombard?"
Lombard
made up his mind.
"Same sort of thing," he said. "Invitation, mention of mutual friends I fell for it
all right. I've torn up the letter."
Mr. Justice Wargrave turned his attention to Mr. Blore. His forefinger stroked
his upper lip and his voice was dangerously polite.
He said: "Just now we had a somewhat disturbing experience. An apparently
disembodied voice spoke to us all by name, uttering certain precise accusations
against us. We will deal with those accusations presently. At the moment I am
interested in a minor point Amongst the names recited was that of William
Henry Blore. But as far as we know there is no one named Blore amongst us.
The
name of Davis was not mentioned. What have you to say about that, Mr. Davis?"
Blore said sulkily:
"Cat's out of the bag, it seems. I suppose I'd better admit that my name isn't
Davis."
"You are William Henry Blore?"
"That's right."
"I will add something," said Lombard. "Not only are you here under a false
name, Mr. Blore, but in addition I've noticed this evening that you're a firstclass
liar.
You claim to have come from Natal, South Africa. I know South Africa and
Natal
and I'm prepared to swear that you've never set foot in South Africa in your life."
All eyes were turned on Blore. Angry suspicious eyes. Anthony Marston moved
a
step nearer to him. His fists clenched themselves.
"Now then, you swine," he said. "Any explanation?"
Blore flung back his head and set his square jaw.
"You gentlemen have got me wrong," he said. "I've got my credentials and you
can see them. I'm an exC.I.D. man. I run a detective agency in Plymouth. I was
put on this job."
Mr. Justice Wargrave asked: "By whom?"
"This man Owen. Enclosed a handsome money order for expenses and instructed
me as to what he wanted done. I was to join the house party, posing as a guest. I
was given all your names. I was to watch you all."
"Any reason given?"
Blore said bitterly:
"Mrs. Owen's jewels. Mrs. Owen my foot! I don't believe there's any such
person."
Again the forefinger of the judge stroked his lip, this time appreciatively.
"Your conclusions are, I think, justified," he said. "Ulick Norman Owen! In Miss
Brent's letter, though the signature of the surname is a mere scrawl the Christian
names are reasonably clear Una Nancy in either case, you notice,
the same initials. Ulick Norman Owen Una Nancy Owen each time, that is to
say, U.N. Owen. Or by a slight stretch of fancy, UNKNOWN!"
Vera cried:
"But this is fantastic mad!"
The judge nodded gently.
He said:
"Oh, yes. I've no doubt in my own mind that we have been invited here by a
madman probably a dangerous homicidal lunatic."
Chapter 4
There was a moment
judge
"We will now proceed to the next stage of our inquiry. First, however, I will just
add my own credentials to the list."
He took a letter from his pocket and tossed it onto the table.
"This purports to be from an old friend of mine, Lady Constance Culmington. I
hove not seen her for some years. She went to the East. It is exactly the kind of
vague incoherent letter she would write, urging me to join her here and referring
to her host and hostess in the vaguest of terms. The same technique, you will
observe. I only mention it because it agrees with the other evidence from all of
which emerges one interesting point. Whoever it was who enticed us here, that
person knows or has taken the trouble to find out a good deal about us all. He,
whoever he may be, is aware of my friendship for Lady Constance and is
familiar with her epistolary style. He knows something about Dr. Armstrong's
colleagues and their present whereabouts. He knows the nickname of Mr.
Marston's friend and the kind of telegrams he sends. He knows exactly where
Miss Brent was two years ago for her holiday and the kind of people she met
there. He knows all about General Macarthur's old cronies."
He paused. Then he said:
"He knows, you see, a good deal. And out of his knowledge concerning us, he
has made certain definite accusations."
Immediately a babel broke out.
General Macarthur shouted:
"Apack of damn lies! Slander!"
Vera cried out:
"It's iniquitous!" Her breath came fast. "Wicked!"
Rogers said hoarsely:
"A lie a wicked lie... we never did neither of us..."
Anthony Marston growled:
"Don't know what the damned fool was getting at!"
The upraised hand of Mr. Justice Wargrave calmed the tumult.
He said, picking his words with care:
"I wish to say this. Our unknown friend accuses me of the murder of one Edward
Seton. I remember Seton perfectly well. He came up before me for trial in June
of
the year 1930. He was charged with the murder of an elderly woman. He was
very ably defended and made a good impression on the jury in the witness box.
Nevertheless, on the evidence, he was certainly guilty. I summed up accordingly,
and the jury brought in a verdict of Guilty. In passing sentence of death I
concurred with the verdict. An appeal was lodged on the grounds of
misdirection.
The appeal was rejected and the man was duly executed. I wish to say before
you
all that my conscience is perfectly clear on the matter. I did my duty and nothing
more. I passed sentence on a rightly convicted murderer."
Armstrong was remembering now. The Seton case! The verdict had come as a
great surprise. He had met Matthews, K.C., on one of the days of the trial dining
at a restaurant. Matthews had been confident. "Not a doubt of the verdict.
Acquittal practically certain." And then afterwards he had heard comments:
"Judge was dead against him. Turned the jury right round and they brought him
in guilty. Quite legal, though. Old Wargrave knows his law." "It was almost as
though he had a private down on the fellow."
All these memories rushed through the doctor
the wisdom of the question he had asked impulsively:
"Did you know Seton at all? I mean previous to the case."
The hooded reptilian eyes met his. In a clear cold voice the judge said:
"I knew nothing of Seton previous to the case."
Armstrong said to himself:
"The fellow's lying I know he's lying."
