A tall soldierly old man appeared at the exit from the platform. His grey hair was cut short and he had a neatly trimmed white moustache.
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 shrewd blue eyes of General Macarthur sized up Lombard.
“Good-looking fellow. Something just a little wrong about him…”
They got into the waiting taxi. They drove through the sleepy streets of little Oakbridge. Then they went down country lanes, steep, green and narrow.
General Macarthur said he lived in East Devon and this part of Devon was new to him.
Vera liked the scenery and said:
“It really is lovely here. The hills and the red earth and everything so green.”
Philip Lombard said critically:
“It’s a bit confined. 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 imagine?”
Lombard shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ve traveled 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 said nothing about the War.
They came to Sticklehaven – a mere group of cottages with a fishing boat or two on the beach.
In the rays of the setting sun they saw Nigger Island rising 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 they could see no house, only the rock with its faint resemblance to a giant Negro’s head. There was something sinister about it. She shivered.
There were three people sitting outside a little inn: the elderly judge, Miss Brent, and a third man – a big bluff man who came forward and introduced himself.
“Decided to wait for you,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. Name’s Davis. Natal, South Africa’s my natal place, ha-ha!”
He laughed.
Mr. Justice Wargrave looked at him with active dislike. He looked as if he wished that he could order to clear the court. Miss Emily Brent was clearly not sure if she liked colonials.
Mr. Davis turned and held up a finger. In response to Davis’ gesture, a man came up to them and said:
“Are you ready to start for the island, ladies and gentlemen? The boat’s waiting. There’s two gentlemen coming by car, but Mr. Owen’s order was not to wait for them as they might arrive at any time.”
The party got up. Their guide led them to his motor boat.
Just as they all got into the boat and their guide was going to start the motor, they saw a car that was coming into the village down the steep country lane.
The car was so fantastically powerful and beautiful that it had all the nature of an apparition. In the radiance of the evening light a young man at the wheel 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. It seemed that Anthony Marston was something more than mortal.
Fred Narracott, looking at his passengers, thought to himself that this was a queer company. He’d expected that Mr. Owen’s guests would be all very rich and important-looking.
Quite different from Mr. Elmer Robson’s parties. Fred Narracott grinned faintly as he remembered the millionaire’s guests. That had been a party if you like – and the drink they’d got through!
This Mr. Owen must be a very different sort of gentleman. It was strange, thought Fred, that Mr. Owen had never been down here yet. Everything had been ordered and paid for by that Mr. Morris. The papers said there was some mystery about Owen. Mr. Narracott agreed with them.
Perhaps it was indeed Miss Gabrielle Turl who had bought the island. But he rejected that theory as he looked at his passengers. They could hardly have anything to do with a film star.
He sized them up objectively.
One spinster – the sour kind – he knew them well enough. She was a dragon, he could bet. Old military gentleman. Nice-looking young lady – but the ordinary kind, not glamourous – no Hollywood touch about her. That bluff cheery gent – he wasn’t a real gentleman. Retired tradesman, that’s what he is, thought Fred Narracott. The other gentleman, the thin hungry looking gentleman with the quick eyes, he was a queer one.
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!).
He was the right kind. Born to money, he was. If the party had been all like him… he’d understand it…
Queer business – the whole thing was queer – very queer.
The boat went round the rock. The south side of the island was quite different. It sloped gently down to the sea. Now at last they saw the house – low and square and modern-looking with rounded windows letting in all the light.
An exciting house – a house that lived up to expectation![12]
Fred Narracott stopped 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 bad weather.”
Fred Narracott said cheerfully:
“Can’t land on Nigger Island when there’s a southeasterly. Sometimes it’s cut off for a week or more.”
Fred Narracott jumped out and he and Lombard helped the others to get out. Narracott tied the boat to a ring in the rock. Then they went up the steps cut in the rock.
General Macarthur said:
“Ha, enchanting spot!”
But he felt uneasy. Damned odd sort of place.
As the party came out on a terrace above, their mood brightened. In the open doorway of the house a correct butler was awaiting them, and something about his appearance reassured them. And then the house itself was really most attractive, the view from the terrace magnificent…
The butler bowed slightly and said:
“Will you come this way, please?”
In the wide hall drinks stood ready. Rows of bottles. That pleased Anthony Marston. His mood improved a little. He’d just been thinking this was not his kind of company. How could old Badger have let him in for this?[13] But the drinks were all right. Plenty of ice, too.
What was the butler chap 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.”
Mrs. Rogers showed Vera to her room upstairs. It was a delightful bedroom with a big window that opened upon the sea and another looking east. At one side of the room a door stood open into a pale blue-tiled bathroom. Vera was very pleased with it.
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.
She said quickly:
“Yes, everything, I think.”
Mrs. Rogers asked her to ring the bell if she wanted anything. She had a flat monotonous voice. Her queer light eyes moved the whole time from place to place.
Vera thought:
“She looks frightened of her own shadow.”
Yes, she looked like a woman who walked in mortal fear.
Vera shivered a little. What on earth was the woman afraid of?
She said pleasantly:
“I’m Mrs. Owen’s new secretary. I expect you know that.”
Mrs. Rogers said:
“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. She thought such small staff was not enough for so large a party.
Mrs. Rogers said:
“I’m a good cook and Rogers is handy about the house. If there’s to be large parties often perhaps Mrs. Owen could get extra help in.”
Mrs. Rogers turned and quietly left the room.
Vera went over to the window and sat down on the window seat. She was faintly worried. 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. A strangely assorted party.
She got up and walked restlessly about the room. She stopped in front of the fireplace. On the mantelpiece there was a huge block of white marble shaped like a bear, a piece of modern sculpture in which was inset a clock. Over it, in a chromium frame, was a poem.
It was the old nursery rhyme that she remembered from her childhood days.
Ten little Nigger boys went out to dine;
One choked his little self and then there were nine.
Nine little Nigger boys sat up very late;
One overslept himself and then there were eight.
Eight little Nigger boys travelling in Devon;
One said he’d stay there and then there were seven.
Seven little Nigger boys chopping up sticks;
One chopped himself in halves and then there were six.
Six little Nigger boys playing with a hive;
A bumblebee stung one and then there were five.
Five little Nigger boys going in for law;
One got in Chancery and then there were four.
Four little Nigger boys going out to sea;
A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.
Three little Nigger boys walking in the Zoo;
A big bear hugged one and then there were two.
Two little Nigger boys sitting in the sun;
One got frizzled up[14] and then there was one.
One little Nigger boy left all alone;
He went and hanged himself and then there were none.
Vera smiled. Of course! This was Nigger Island!
She returned to the window and sat again looking out to sea.
How big the sea was! No land could be seen from here – just blue water around everywhere.
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’t think of it!
All that was over.
Dr. Armstrong came to Nigger Island just as the sun was setting. On the way across he had chatted to the boatman – a local man. He wanted to find out a little about these people who owned Nigger Island, but the man Narracott knew curiously little, or perhaps did not wish to talk.
So Dr. Armstrong chatted instead of the weather and of fishing.
He was tired after his long motor drive. 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’t leave his practice for long: you were soon forgotten nowadays.
He thought:
“But this evening, I’ll imagine to myself that I’m not going back.”
There was something magical about an island. You lost touch with the world[15] – 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.”
He smiled to himself and 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 frog-like face, that tortoise-like neck, that hunched-up figure – yes, and those pale shrewd little eyes? Of course – old Wargrave. He’d given evidence once before him. Had great power with a jury – it was said he could make their minds up for them any day of the week. He’d got one or two unlikely convictions out of them. A hanging judge, some people said.
Strange to meet him… here – out of the world.
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 them.” And in his mind he returned to 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 he wanted first to pay his respects to the host and hostess.
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 not important,” 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.
In his mind, Mr. Justice Wargrave turned to the two women in the house, the tight-lipped spinster and the girl. He didn’t care for the girl, heartless young hussy. No, three women, if you counted the Rogers woman. Queer creature, she looked frightened to death. Respectable pair and knew their job…
At that moment, Rogers came out on the terrace and the judge asked him:
“Is Lady Constance Culmington expected, do you know?” Rogers stared at him.
“No, sir, not to my knowledge.”
The judge’s eyebrows rose. But he only grunted.
He thought:
“Nigger Island, eh? There’s a nigger in the woodpile[16].”
Anthony Marston was enjoying his bath. 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.
Pleasantly hot water – presently a shave – a cocktail – dinner.
And after —?
Mr. Blore was tying his tie. He wasn’t very good at this sort of thing.
It worried him whether he looked all right. He hoped he did.
Nobody had been exactly pleasant to him… Funny the way they all looked at each other – as though they knew.
Well, he didn’t mean to fail in his job.
He glanced up at the framed nursery rhyme over the mantelpiece.
Neat touch, having that there!
General Macarthur was frowning to himself. Damn it all, the whole thing was so strange! Not at all what he had expected…
He would like to 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, he was a queer chap.
He’d bet the man wasn’t honest.
Philip Lombard came out of his room as the gong sounded. He moved noiselessly like a panther. A beast of prey – pleasant to the eye.
He was smiling to himself. He was going to enjoy that week.
Emily Brent was reading her Bible in her bedroom, dressed in black silk ready for dinner.
“The Lord is known by the judgement which he executed: the wicked is snared in the work of his own hands. The wicked shall be turned into hell.”
She closed the Bible and went down to dinner.
Dinner was nearly at its end.
The food had been good, the wine perfect.
They all had begun to talk to each other with more freedom and intimacy.
Mr. Justice Wargrave was being amusing in a sarcastic manner; Dr. Armstrong and Tony Marston were listening to him. Miss Brent chatted to General Macarthur; they had discovered some mutual friends. Vera Claythorne and Mr. Davis were talking about South Africa. Lombard listened to the conversation. Now and then[17] his eyes went round the table, studying the others.
Anthony Marston suddenly pointed to little china figures in the centre of the round table.
“Niggers,” he said. “Nigger Island. I suppose that’s the idea.”
Vera asked:
“How many are there? Ten?”
“Yes – ten there are.”
Vera exclaimed:
“How interesting! They’re the ten little Nigger boys of the nursery rhyme, I suppose. The rhyme in a frame is over the mantelpiece in my bedroom.”
There was the chorus of voices:
“In my room, too.”
Vera said:
“It’s an amusing idea, isn’t it?”
Mr. Justice Wargrave grunted:
“Remarkably childish,” and helped himself to port.
Emily Brent and Vera Claythorne stood up and went to the drawing-room.
In the drawing-room, the French windows were open onto the terrace and the sound of the sea waves against the rocks came up to them.
Vera said:
“I don’t think this place would be very pleasant in a storm.”
Emily Brent agreed.
“I’ve no doubt the house is closed up in winter,” she said. “No servants would stay here.”
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 took a small piece of embroidery out of her bag and paused.
She said sharply:
“I’ve never met anyone called Owen in my life.”
At that moment 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 went to the open window. Blore studied a statuette of a female figure. General Macarthur stood with his back to the mantelpiece. 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 pleasant satisfied silence.
Into that silence, without warning, came The Voice…
“Ladies and gentlemen! Silence, please!”
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 upon the 14th day of March, 1925 you caused 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 on October 10th, 1928, you caused the death of James Stephen Landor.
Vera Elizabeth Claythorne, that on the 11th day of August, 1935, you killed Cyril Ogilvie Hamilton.
Philip Lombard, that 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 James Marston, that last year, upon the 14 th of November, you were guilty of the murder of John and Lucy Combes.
Thomas Rogers and Ethel Rogers, that on the 6th of May,
1929, you caused 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.
Defendants, have you anything to say in your defence?
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