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VII
Blore recovered himself first. He said:
‘Sorry—er—Rogers. Heard someone moving about in here, and thought
—well—’
He stopped.
Rogers said:
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen. I was just moving my things. I take it there will be
no objection if I take one of the vacant guest chambers on the floor below?
The smallest room.’
It was to Armstrong that he spoke and Armstrong replied:
‘Of course. Of course. Get on with it.’
He avoided looking at the sheeted figure lying on the bed.
Rogers said:
‘Thank you, sir.’
He went out of the room with his arm full of belongings and went down
the stairs to the floor below.
Armstrong moved over to the bed and, lifting the sheet, looked down on
the peaceful face of the dead woman. There was no fear there now. Just
emptiness.
Armstrong said:
‘Wish I’d got my stuff here. I’d like to know what drug it was.’
Then he turned to the other two.
‘Let’s get finished. I feel it in my bones we’re not going to find anything.’
Blore was wrestling with the bolts of a low manhole.
He said:
‘That chap moves damned quietly. A minute or two ago we saw him in
the garden. None of us heard him come upstairs.’
Lombard said:
‘I suppose that’s why we assumed it must be a stranger moving about up
here.’
Blore disappeared into a cavernous darkness. Lombard pulled a torch
from his pocket and followed.
Five minutes later three men stood on an upper landing and looked at
each other. They were dirty and festooned with cobwebs and their faces
were grim.
There was no one on the island but their eight selves.
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