Agatha Christie - And Then There Were None

Only young Armitage had looked at him curiously once or twice. Quite a young chap, but he'd had perceptions, that boy.

Armitage, perhaps, had guessed - when the time came.

He'd sent Richmond deliberately to death. Only a miracle could have brought him through unhurt. That miracle didn't happen. Yes, he'd sent Richmond to his death and he wasn't sorry. It had been easy enough. Mistakes were being made all the time, officers being sent to death needlessly. All was confusion, panic. People might say afterwards, "Old Macarthur lost his nerve a bit, made some colossal blunders, sacrificed some of his best men." They couldn't say more.

But young Armitage was different. He'd looked at his commanding officer very oddly. He'd known, perhaps, that Richmond was being deliberately sent to death.

(And after the War was over - had Armitage talked?)

Leslie hadn't known. Leslie had wept for her lover (he supposed) but her weeping was over by the time he'd come back to England. He'd never told her that he'd found her out. They'd gone on together - only, somehow, she hadn't seemed very real any more. And then, three or four years later, she'd got double pneumonia and died.

That had been a long time ago. Fifteen years - sixteen years?

And he'd left the Army and come to live in Devon - bought the sort of little place he'd always meant to have. Nice neighbours - pleasant part of the world. There was a bit of shooting and fishing. He'd gone to church on Sundays. (But not the day that the lesson was read about David putting Uriah in the forefront of the battle. Somehow he couldn't face that. Gave him an uncomfortable feeling.)

Everybody had been very friendly. At first, that is. Later, he'd had an uneasy feeling that people were talking about him behind his back. They eyed him differently, somehow. As though they'd heard something - some lying rumour...

(Armitage? Supposing Armitage had talked?)

He'd avoided people after that - withdrawn into himself. Unpleasant to feel that people were discussing you.

And all so long ago. So - so purposeless now. Leslie had faded into the distance and Arthur Richmond, too. Nothing of what had happened seemed to matter any more.

It made life lonely, though. He'd taken to shunning his old Army friends.

(If Armitage had talked, they'd know about it.)

And now - this evening - a hidden voice had blared out that old hidden story.

Had he dealt with it all right? Kept a stiff upper lip? Betrayed the right amount of feeling - indignation, disgust - but no guilt, no discomfiture? Difficult to tell.

Surely nobody could have taken the accusation seriously. There had been a pack of other nonsense, just as far-fetched. That charming girl - the voice had accused her of drowning a child! Idiotic! Some madman throwing crazy accusations about!

Emily Brent, too - actually a niece of old Tom Brent of the Regiment. It had accused her of murder! Any one could see with half an eye that the woman was as pious as could be - the kind that was hand and glove with parsons.

Damned curious business the whole thing! Crazy, nothing less.

Ever since they had got there - when was that? Why, damn it, it was only this afternoon! Seemed a good bit longer than that.

He thought: "I wonder when we shall get away again."

Tomorrow, of course, when the motor boat came from the mainland.

Funny, just this minute he didn't want much to get away from the island... To go back to the mainland, back to his little house, back to all the troubles and worries. Through the open window he could hear the waves breaking on the rocks - a little louder now than earlier in the evening. Wind was getting up, too.

He thought: "Peaceful sound. Peaceful place..."

He thought: "Best of an island is once you get there - you can't go any further... you've come to the end of things..."

He knew, suddenly, that he didn't want to leave the island.

Vera Claythorne lay in bed, wide awake, staring up at the ceiling.

The light beside her was on. She was frightened of the dark.

She was thinking:

"Hugo... Hugo... Why do I feel you're so near to me tonight?... Somewhere quite close...

"Where is he really? I don't know. I never shall know. He just went away - right away - out of my life!"

It was no good trying not to think of Hugo. He was close to her. She had to think of him - to remember...

Cornwall...

The black rocks, the smooth yellow sand. Mrs. Hamilton, stout, good-humoured. Cyril, whining a little always, pulling at her hand.

"I want to swim out to the rock. Miss Claythorne. Why can't I swim out to the rock?"

Looking up - meeting Hugo's eyes watching her.

The evenings after Cyril was in bed...

"Come out for a stroll, Miss Claythorne."

"I think perhaps I will."

The decorous stroll down to the beach. The moonlight - the soft Atlantic air.

And then, Hugo's arm round her.

"I love you, I love you. You know I love you, Vera?"

Yes, she knew.

(Or thought she knew.)

"I can't ask you to marry me. I've not got a penny. Its all I can do to keep myself. Queer, you know, once, for three months I had the chance of being a rich man to look forward to. Cyril wasn't born until three months after Maurice died. If he'd been a girl..."

If the child has been a girl, Hugo would have come into everything. He'd been disappointed, he admitted.

"I hadn't built on it, of course. But it was a bit of a knock. Oh, well, luck's luck! Cyril's a nice kid. I'm awfully fond of him."

And he was fond of him, too. Always ready to play games or amuse his small nephew. No rancour in Hugo's nature.

Cyril wasn't really strong. A puny child - no stamina. The kind of child, perhaps, who wouldn't live to grow up...

And then -?

"Miss Claythorne, why can't I swim to the rock?"

Irritating whiney repetition.

"It s too far, Cyril."

"But, Miss Claythorne..."

Vera got up. She went to the dressing-table and swallowed three aspirins.

She thought:

"I wish I had some proper sleeping stuff."

She thought:

"If I were doing away with myself I'd take an overdose of veronal - something like that - not cyanide!"

She shuddered as she remembered Anthony Marston's convulsed purple face.

As she passed the mantelpiece, she looked up at the framed doggerel.

Ten little Indian boys went out to dine;

One choked his little self and then there were nine.

She thought to herself:

"It's horrible - just like us this evening..."

Why had Anthony Marston wanted to die?

She didn't want to die.

She couldn't imagine wanting to die...

Death was for - the other people...

Dr. Armstrong was dreaming...

It was very hot in the operating room...

Surely they'd got the temperature too high? The sweat was rolling down his face. His hands were clammy. Difficult to hold the scalpel firmly...

How beautifully sharp it was...

Easy to do a murder with a knife like that. And of course he was doing a murder...

The woman's body looked different. It had been a large unwieldy body. This was a spare meagre body. And the face was hidden.

Who was it that he had to kill?

He couldn't remember. But he must know! Should he ask Sister?

Sister was watching him. No, he couldn't ask her. She was suspicious, he could see that.

But who was it on the operating table?

They shouldn't have covered up the face like that...

If he could only see the face...

Ah! that was better. A young probationer was pulling off the handkerchief.

Emily Brent, of course. It was Emily Brent that he had to kill.

How malicious her eyes were! Her lips were moving. What was she saying?

"In the midst of life we are in death..."