Damn it all, the whole thing was deuced odd! Not at all what he’d been led to expect…
For two pins he’d make an excuse and get away… Throw up the whole business…
But the motor-boat had gone back to the mainland.
He’d have to stay.
That fellow Lombard now, he was a queer chap.
Not straight. He’d swear the man wasn’t straight.
XI
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.
XII
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 judgment which he executeth: the wicked is snared in the work of his own hands. The wicked shall be turned into hell.’
Her lips tight closed. She shut the Bible.
Rising, she pinned a cairngorm brooch at her neck, and went down to dinner.
I
Dinner was drawing to a close.
The food had been good, the wine perfect. Rogers waited well.
Everyone 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.
‘Soldiers,’ said Tony. ‘Soldier 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 soldier 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 in 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 drawing-room the French windows were open on to 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’s eyes looked at her in surprise. Vera flushed. She said, more 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 anyone 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 naïve 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!’
Everyone 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 of 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 twenty-one men, members of an East African tribe.
‘John Gordon Macarthur, that on the 4th of January, 1917, you deliberately sent your wife’s lover, Arthur Richmond, to his death.
‘Anthony