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III
‘Perfectly clear,’ said Armstrong. ‘The murderer must have crept up be-
hind him, swung the chopper once and brought it down on his head as he
was bending over.’
Blore was busy on the handle of the chopper and the flour sifter from
the kitchen.
Mr Justice Wargrave asked:
‘Would it have needed great force, doctor?’
Armstrong said gravely:
‘A woman could have done it if that’s what you mean.’ He gave a quick
glance round. Vera Claythorne and Emily Brent had retired to the kitchen.
‘The girl could have done it easily—she’s an athletic type. In appearance
Miss Brent is fragile-looking, but that type of woman has often a lot of
wiry strength. And you must remember that anyone who’s mentally un-
hinged has a good deal of unsuspected strength.’
The judge nodded thoughtfully.
Blore rose to his knees with a sigh. He said:
‘No fingerprints. Handle was wiped afterwards.’
A sound of laughter was heard—they turned sharply. Vera Claythorne
was standing in the yard. She cried out in a high shrill voice, shaken with
wild bursts of laughter:
‘Do they keep bees on this island? Tell me that. Where do we go for
honey? Ha! ha!’
They stared at her uncomprehendingly. It was as though the sane well-
balanced girl had gone mad before their eyes. She went on in that high un-
natural voice:
‘Don’t stare like that! As though you thought I was mad. It’s sane enough
what I’m asking. Bees, hives, bees! Oh, don’t you understand? Haven’t you
read that idiotic rhyme? It’s up in all your bedrooms—put there for you to
study! We might have come here straightaway if we’d had sense. Seven
little soldier boys chopping up sticks. And the next verse. I know the whole
thing by heart, I tell you! Six little soldier boys playing with a hive. And
that’s why I’m asking—do they keep bees on this island?—isn’t it funny?—
isn’t it damned funny…?’
She began laughing wildly again. Dr Armstrong strode forward. He
raised his hand and struck her a flat blow on the cheek.
She gasped, hiccupped—and swallowed. She stood motionless a minute,
then she said:
‘Thank you…I’m all right now.’
Her voice was once more calm and controlled—the voice of the efficient
games mistress.
She turned and went across the yard into the kitchen saying: ‘Miss Brent
and I are getting you breakfast. Can you—bring some sticks to light the
fire?’
The marks of the doctor’s hand stood out red on her cheek.
As she went into the kitchen Blore said:
‘Well, you dealt with that all right, doctor.’
Armstrong said apologetically:
‘Had to! We can’t cope with hysteria on the top of everything else.’
Philip Lombard said:
‘She’s not a hysterical type.’
Armstrong agreed.
‘Oh no. Good healthy sensible girl. Just the sudden shock. It might hap-
pen to anybody.’
Rogers had chopped a certain amount of firewood before he had been
killed. They gathered it up and took it into the kitchen. Vera and Emily
Brent were busy, Miss Brent was raking out the stove. Vera was cutting
the rind off the bacon.
Emily Brent said:
‘Thank you. We’ll be as quick as we can—say half an hour to three-quar-
ters. The kettle’s got to boil.’
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