Three

I

D inner 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 intimacy¹.

Mr. Justice Wargrave, mellowed² by the excellent port, was being amusing in a caustic³

fashion, Dr. Armstrong and Tony Marston were listening to him. Miss Brent chatted to General

Macarthur, they had discovered some mutual⁴ 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 grunted⁵:

“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 embroidery⁶ 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 pointed⁷ to twenty minutes past nine. There was a silence—a comfortable

replete⁸ silence.

Into that silence came The Voice. Without warning, inhuman⁹, 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 indictments¹⁰:

“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 deliberately¹¹ sent your

wife’s lover, Arthur Richmond, to his death.

“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?”

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