After a moment of puzzled silence the judge spoke again.
“We will now go on with our investigation. First, however, I will just add my own information to the list.”
He took a letter from his pocket.
“This is from an old friend of mine, Lady Constance Culmington. I have not seen her for some years. She went to the East. It is exactly the kind of vague letter she would write, asking me to join her here and mentioning her host and hostess in the vaguest of terms. It shows that the person, that invited us here, knows a good deal about us all. He knows 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 added:
“He knows a good deal. And out of his knowledge about us, he has made certain definite accusations.”
They all cried out at once.
General Macarthur shouted:
“Damn lies!”
Vera cried out:
“It’s wicked!”
Rogers said:
“A lie – a wicked lie… we never did…”
Anthony Marston growled:
“Don’t know what the damned fool was meaning!” Mr. Justice Wargrave raised his hand.
He said:
“I wish to say this. Our unknown friend accuses me of the murder of Edward Seton. I remember Seton perfectly well. He was charged with the murder of an elderly woman. He was very well defended and made a good impression on the jury in the witness box. But on the evidence, he was guilty. I summed up accordingly, and the jury brought in a verdict of Guilty. In passing sentence of death I agreed with the verdict.[20] An appeal was made on the grounds of misdirection. The appeal was rejected and the man was executed. I wish to say before you all that my conscience is absolutely clear on the matter. I did my duty and nothing more. I passed sentence on a rightly convicted murderer.”
Now Armstrong remembered the Seton case! The verdict had come as a great surprise. He had met Matthews, King’s Councel, at a restaurant. Matthews had been sure that Edward Seton would be found not guilty. And then afterwards he had heard comments: “Judge was dead against Seton. Made the jury charge him as guilty. Quite legal, though. Old Wargrave knows his law.” “It was almost as though he had a personal down[21] on the fellow.”
The doctor asked impulsively:
“Did you know Seton at all? I mean before the case.”
In a clear cold voice the judge said:
“I knew nothing of Seton before the case.”
Armstrong said to himself:
“The man’s lying.”
Vera Claythorne, in a trembling voice, told them her version of the death of Cyril Hamilton. She said the boy had swum out to the rock without permission when her attention had been distracted. Of course, she swam after him but failed to get there in time…
“…It was awful. But it wasn’t my fault. At the inquest the Coroner acquitted me. And his mother didn’t blame me; she was so kind. Why should this awful thing be said now? It’s not fair – not fair…”
General Macarthur said soothingly:
“Of course it’s not true, my dear. The man’s a madman. A madman! Got a bee in his bonnet!”[22]
In his opinion the best way would be to leave those accusations unanswered.
However, he stood up and started to explain:
“But feel I ought to say – no truth in what he said about – er – young Arthur Richmond. He was one of my officers. I sent him on a reconnaissance. He was killed. Natural course of events in war time. Wish to say I resent very much – slur on my wife. Best woman in the world. Absolutely – Caesar’s wife!”[23]
General Macarthur sat down. His shaking hand pulled at his moustache. That explanation had cost him a good deal.
Lombard spoke, too. His eyes were merry. He grinned and said:
“About those natives. Story’s quite true! I left ’em! Matter of self-preservation. We were lost in the bush. I and a couple of other fellows took what food there was and left.”
General Macarthur said sternly:
“You left your men to starve?”
Lombard said:
“Not quite the act of a real gentleman, I’m afraid. But self-preservation’s a man’s first duty. And natives don’t mind dying, you know. They don’t feel about it as Europeans do.”
Vera looked into his merry eyes with her horrified ones.
“You left them – to die?”
Lombard answered:
“I left them to die.”
Anthony Marston said in a puzzled voice:
“I’ve just been thinking – John and Lucy Combes. Must have been a couple of kids I ran over near Cambridge. Beastly bad luck.”
Mr. Justice Wargrave said acidly:
“For them, or for you?”
Anthony said:
“Well, I was thinking – for me – but of course, you’re right, sir, it was damned bad luck on them. Of course it was just an accident. They rushed out of some cottage or other. My licence was endorsed for a year. Beastly nuisance.”
Dr. Armstrong said angrily:
“This speeding’s all wrong – all wrong! Young men like you are a danger to the community.”
Anthony shrugged his shoulders.
“Speed’s come to stay. English roads are hopeless, of course. Can’t drive with a decent speed on them.”
He picked up his glass, went over to the side table and helped himself to another whiskey and soda. He said over his shoulder:
“Well, anyway, it wasn’t my fault. Just an accident!”
The manservant, Rogers, looking very nervous, asked for permission to speak.
Lombard said:
“Go ahead, Rogers.”
Rogers cleared his throat and passed his tongue over his dry lips.
“Mrs. Rogers and I, and Miss Brady were mentioned, sir. There isn’t a word of truth in it, sir. From the time we came to her, Miss Brady was in poor health, sir. There was a storm, sir, that night when she got worse. The telephone was out of order. We couldn’t get the doctor to her. I went for him, sir, on foot. But he got there too late. We’d done everything possible for her, sir. We were devoted to her.”
Lombard looked thoughtfully at the man’s twitching face, the fright in his eyes. He remembered the crash of the falling coffee tray. He thought, but did not say, “Oh, yea?”
But Blore said:
“Came into a little something[24] at her death, though? Eh?”
Rogers said stiffly:
“Miss Brady left us a legacy in recognition of our faithful services. And why not, I’d like to know?”
Lombard turned to Blore.
“What about yourself, Mr. Blore? Your name was included in the list.”
Blore went dark red.
“Landor, you mean? That was the bank robbery.”
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
“I remember the case. Landor was convicted on your evidence. He got life sentence and died in Dartmoor a year later. He was not a very healthy man.”
Blore said:
“He was a criminal. He knocked out the night watchman. The case was quite clear against him.”
Wargrave said slowly:
“You were praised, I think, on your efficient work on the case.”
Blore said darkly:
“I got my promotion. But I was only doing my duty.”
Lombard laughed suddenly and said:
“How duty-loving and law-abiding, it seems, we all are! Except myself. Now doctor, what was your little professional mistake? Illegal operation?”
Dr. Armstrong, very much master of himself, shook his head good-humouredly. He said calmly that he didn’t remember having a patient of that name, or being connected with a death in any way.
“Of course, it’s a long time ago. It might possibly be one of my operation cases in hospital. They come too late, so many of these people. Then, when the patient dies, they always suppose it’s the surgeon’s fault.”
He sighed and shook his head again.
To himself, he thought:
“Drunk – I was drunk… And I operated with shaking hands! I killed her, poor woman – simple job if I’d been sober. Luckily, there’s loyalty in our profession. The Sister knew, of course – but she held her tongue, God, it gave me a shock! I pulled myself together. But who could have known about it – after all these years?”
In silence, they all were looking at Emily Brent. She did not understand at once that they were expecting she would tell her story. Then her eyebrows rose on her narrow forehead. She said:
“I have nothing to say.”
The judge said:
“You reserve your defence?”[25]
Miss Brent said coldly:
“There is no question of defence. My actions have been always dictated by my conscience. I have nothing with which to reproach myself.”
There was an unsatisfied feeling in the air. But public opinion was not important for Emily Brent. She remained silent.
Then the judge asked the butler who else was there on the island besides eight guests and Rogers and his wife. Rogers said there was nobody else, and he was absolutely sure of that.
Wargrave continued:
“I have no idea why our unknown host has assembled us here. But in my opinion this person, whoever he may be, is not sane in the usual sense of the word.
“He may be dangerous. I think we should leave this place tonight.”
Rogers said:
“I beg your pardon, sir, but there’s no boat on the island.”
“No boat at all?”
“No, sir.”
“How do you communicate with the mainland?”
“Fred Narracott comes over every morning, sir. He brings the bread and the milk and the post, and takes the orders.”
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
“Then in my opinion it would be well if we all left tomorrow morning in Narracott’s boat.”
They all agreed except Anthony Marston.
“A bit unsporting, that.” he said. “The whole thing’s like a detective story. Really thrilling.”
Ought to disclose the mystery before we go. The judge said acidly:
“At my time of life, I have no desire for ’thrills,’ as you call them.”
Anthony said with a grin:
“The legal life’s narrowing! I’m all for crime! Here’s to it.” He picked up his drink and drank it off at a gulp.
Too quickly, perhaps. He choked – choked badly. He gasped for breath – then fell down from his chair.
It was so shocking that they couldn’t move and sat still staring at the body on the floor.
Then Dr. Armstrong jumped up and crossed the room, kneeling beside him. Then he looked at them with bewildered eyes and whispered:
“My God! he’s dead!”
They didn’t understand it. Not at once.
That young god in the prime of his health and strength – dead? Healthy young men didn’t die like that, choking over a whiskey and soda…
Dr. Armstrong was peering into the dead man’s face. He sniffed at the blue twisted lips. Then he picked up the glass from which Anthony Marston had been drinking and sniffed at it. His expression changed.
General Macarthur said:
“Dead? D’you mean the fellow just choked and – and died?”
Emily Brent said in a clear voice:
“In the midst of life we are in death.”
The physician stood up. He said sharply:
“No, Marston’s death wasn’t what we call a natural death.”
Vera almost whispered:
“Was there – something – in the whiskey?”
Armstrong nodded.
“Yes. Everything points to one of the cyanides, probably potassium cyanide. It acts pretty instantaneously.”
The judge said sharply:
“It was in his glass?”
The doctor nodded again. Then he went to the table with the drinks. He smelt and tasted the whiskey in the decanter. Then he tasted the soda water. He shook his head.
“They’re both all right.”
Lombard said:
“You mean – he put the stuff in his glass himself!”
Armstrong nodded with a strangely dissatisfied expression.
“Seems like it.”
Blore said:
“Suicide, eh? That’s queer.”
Vera said slowly:
“You’d never think that he would kill himself. He was so alive. He was – oh – enjoying himself! When he came down the hill in his car this evening he looked – oh, I can’t explain!”
But they knew what she meant. Anthony Marston, in the prime of his youth, had seemed like a being that was immortal. And now he lay broken on the floor.
Dr. Armstrong said:
“Is there any possibility other than suicide?”
But they could not find any other explanation. They had all seen how Anthony Marston had filled his glass himself.
And yet – why should Anthony Marston commit suicide?
Blore said thoughtfully:
“You know, I wouldn’t have said Mr. Marston was a suicidal type of gentleman.”
Armstrong agreed.
Armstrong and Lombard had carried the body of Anthony Marston to his bedroom, had laid him on the bed and covered over with a sheet.
When they came downstairs, the others were standing in the hall, shivering a little, though the night was not cold.
It was past twelve o’clock.
Emily Brent said:
“We’d better go to bed. It’s late.”
But still, they stood together as though they needed each other’s company for reassurance.
Then the judge said:
“Yes, we must get some sleep.”
Rogers said:
“I haven’t cleared yet – in the dining-room.”
Lombard told him to do it in the morning.
Armstrong asked Rogers how his wife was. He went to check on her. In a minute or two he returned and said she was sleeping peacefully.
“Good,” said the doctor. “Don’t disturb her.”
“No, sir. I’ll just clear in the dining-room and make sure everything’s locked up for the night, and then I’ll go to bed.”
He went across the hall into the dining-room.
The others, slowly, unwillingly, went upstairs.
They exchanged good-nights on the upper landing. Each of them went into his or her own room, and each of them automatically locked the door…
In his bedroom, Mr. Justice Wargrave prepared himself for bed.
He was thinking about Edward Seton.
He remembered Seton very well. His fair hair, his blue eyes, how he had looked you frankly straight in the face. That had made such good impression on the jury.
Llewellyn, the prosecutor, had spoiled it a bit. He had tried to prove too much.
Matthews, on the other hand, the defending counsel, had been good. His cross-examinations had been deadly. He had treated his client in the witness box masterfully.
And Seton had come through the cross-examination well. The jury had been impressed. It had seemed to Matthews, perhaps, as though everything had been over bar the shouting[26].
The judge remembered how he had felt sitting there – listening, writing down every piece of evidence that told against the prisoner.
He’d enjoyed that case! Matthews’ final speech had been first-class. Llewellyn, coming after it, had failed to remove the good impression that the defending counsel had made.
And then had come his own summing-up…
Carefully, Mr. Justice Wargrave removed his false teeth and dropped them into a glass of water. His lips fell in. It was a cruel mouth now, cruel and predatory.
The judge smiled to himself.
He’d cooked Seton’s goose all right![27]
The judge climbed into bed and turned out the electric light.
Rogers, in the dining-room, was staring at the china figures in the centre of the table.
He muttered to himself:
“That’s odd! I well remember there were ten of them.”
In his bed, General Macarthur couldn’t sleep. Arthur Richmond’s face was there in the darkness before his eyes.
He’d been damned fond of Arthur. He’d been pleased that Leslie liked him too.
Leslie was so capricious. She found lots of good fellows very dull.
But Leslie hadn’t found Arthur Richmond dull. They’d got on well together from the beginning. They’d talked of plays and music and pictures together. She’d teased him, made fun of him. And he, Macarthur, had been glad that Leslie took quite a motherly interest in the boy.
Motherly indeed! Damn fool not to remember that Richmond was twenty-eight to Leslie’s twenty-nine.
He’d loved Leslie. He could see her now in the darkness of his room. Her heart-shaped face, and her laughing deep grey eyes, and the brown curling mass of her hair. He’d loved Leslie and he’d believed in her absolutely.
During the war, out there in France, in the middle of all the hell of it, he’d sat thinking of her, taken her picture out of the breast pocket of his tunic.
And then – he’d found out!
It had happened like in books – the letter in the wrong envelope. She’d been writing to them both and she’d put her letter to Richmond in the envelope addressed to her husband.
How it hurt even now, all these years later!
The letter had made clear that it had been going on some time. Week-ends! Richmond’s last leave…
Leslie and Arthur!
God damn the fellow! Damn his smiling face, his cheerful “Yes, sir.” Liar and hypocrite! Stealer of another man’s wife!
He’d tried to show nothing, to make his manner to Richmond just the same.
Only young Armitage had looked at him curiously once or twice. Armitage, perhaps, had guessed – when the time came.
He’d sent Richmond deliberately to 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 mistakes, sacrificed some of his best men.” They couldn’t say more.
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