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Epilogue
Sir Thomas Legge, Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard, said irritably:
‘But the whole thing’s incredible!’
Inspector Maine said respectfully:
‘I know, sir.’
The AC went on:
‘Ten people dead on an island and not a living soul on it. It doesn’t make
sense!’
Inspector Maine said stolidly:
‘Nevertheless, it happened, sir.’
Sir Thomas Legge said:
‘Dam’ it all, Maine, somebody must have killed ’em.’
‘That’s just our problem, sir.’
‘Nothing helpful in the doctor’s report?’
‘No, sir. Wargrave and Lombard were shot, the first through the head,
the second through the heart. Miss Brent and Marston died of cyanide
poisoning. Mrs Rogers died of an overdose of chloral. Rogers’ head was
split open. Blore’s head was crushed in. Armstrong died of drowning. Ma-
carthur’s skull was fractured by a blow on the back of the head and Vera
Claythorne was hanged.’
The AC winced. He said:
‘Nasty business—all of it.’
He considered for a minute or two. He said irritably:
‘Do you mean to say that you haven’t been able to get anything helpful
out of the Sticklehaven people? Dash it, they must know something.’
Inspector Maine shrugged his shoulders.
‘They’re ordinary decent seafaring folk. They know that the island was
bought by a man called Owen—and that’s about all they do know.’
‘Who provisioned the island and made all the necessary arrangements?’
‘Man called Morris. Isaac Morris.’
‘And what does he say about it all?’
‘He can’t say anything, sir, he’s dead.’
The AC frowned.
‘Do we know anything about this Morris?’
‘Oh yes, sir, we know about him. He wasn’t a very savoury gentleman,
Mr Morris. He was implicated in that share-pushing fraud of Bennito’s
three years ago —we’re sure of that though we can’t prove it. And he was
mixed up in the dope business. And again we can’t prove it. He was a very
careful man, Morris.’
‘And he was behind this island business?’
‘Yes, sir, he put through the sale—though he made it clear that he was
buying Soldier Island for a third party, unnamed.’
‘Surely there’s something to be found out on the financial angle, there?’
Inspector Maine smiled.
‘Not if you knew Morris! He can wangle figures until the best chartered
accountant in the country wouldn’t know if he was on his head or his
heels! We’ve had a taste of that in the Bennito business. No, he covered his
employer’s tracks all right.’
The other man sighed. Inspector Maine went on:
‘It was Morris who made all the arrangements down at Sticklehaven.
Represented himself as acting for “Mr Owen”. And it was he who ex-
plained to the people down there that there was some experiment on—
some bet about living on a “desert island” for a week—and that no notice
was to be taken of any appeal for help from out there.’
Sir Thomas Legge stirred uneasily. He said:
‘And you’re telling me that those people didn’t smell a rat? Not even
then?’
Maine shrugged his shoulders. He said:
‘You’re forgetting, sir, that Soldier Island previously belonged to young
Elmer Robson, the American. He had the most extraordinary parties down
there. I’ve no doubt the local people’s eyes fairly popped out over them.
But they got used to it and they’d begun to feel that anything to do with
Soldier Island would necessarily be incredible. It’s natural, that, sir, when
you come to think of it.’
The Assistant Commissioner admitted gloomily that he supposed it was.
Maine said:
‘Fred Narracott—that’s the man who took the party out there—did say
one thing that was illuminating. He said he was surprised to see what sort
of people these were. “Not at all like Mr Robson’s parties.” I think it was
the fact that they were all so normal and so quiet that made him override
Morris’s orders and take out a boat to the island after he’d heard about the
SOS signals.’
‘When did he and the other men go?’
‘The signals were seen by a party of boy scouts on the morning of the
11th. There was no possibility of getting out there that day. The men got
there on the afternoon of the 12th at the first moment possible to run a
boat ashore there. They’re all quite positive that nobody could have left
the island before they got there. There was a big sea on after the storm.’
‘Couldn’t someone have swum ashore?’
‘It’s over a mile to the coast and there were heavy seas and big breakers
inshore. And there were a lot of people, boy scouts and others on the cliffs
looking out towards the island and watching.’
The AC sighed. He said:
‘What about that gramophone record you found in the house? Couldn’t
you get hold of anything there that might help?’
Inspector Maine said:
‘I’ve been into that. It was supplied by a firm that do a lot of theatrical
stuff and film effects. It was sent toU. N. Owen Esq., c/o Isaac Morris, and
was understood to be required for the amateur performance of a hitherto
unacted play. The typescript of it was returned with the record.’
Legge said:
‘And what about the subject matter, eh?’
Inspector Maine said gravely:
‘I’m coming to that, sir.’
He cleared his throat.
‘I’ve investigated those accusations as thoroughly as I can.
‘Starting with the Rogerses who were the first to arrive on the island.
They were in service with a Miss Brady who died suddenly. Can’t get any-
thing definite out of the doctor who attended her. He says they certainly
didn’t poison her, or anything like that, but his personal belief is that there
was some funny business—that she died as the result of neglect on their
part. Says it’s the sort of thing that’s quite impossible to prove.
‘Then there is Mr Justice Wargrave. That’s OK. He was the judge who
sentenced Seton.
‘By the way, Seton was guilty—unmistakably guilty. Evidence turned up
later, after he was hanged, which proved that beyond any shadow of
doubt. But there was a good deal of comment at the time—nine people out
of ten thought Seton was innocent and that the judge’s summing up had
been vindictive.
‘The Claythorne girl, I find, was governess in a family where a death oc-
curred by drowning. However, she doesn’t seem to have had anything to
do with it, and as a matter of fact she behaved very well, swam out to the
rescue and was actually carried out to sea and only just rescued in time.’
‘Go on,’ said the AC with a sigh.
Maine took a deep breath.
‘Dr Armstrong now. Well-known man. Had a consulting-room in Harley
Street. Absolutely straight and above- board in his profession. Haven’t
been able to trace any record of an illegal operation or anything of that
kind. It’s true that there was a woman called Clees who was operated on
by him way back in 1925 at Leithmore, when he was attached to the hos-
pital there. Peritonitis and she died on the operating- table. Maybe he
wasn’t very skilful over the op—after all he hadn’t much experience—but
after all clumsiness isn’t a criminal offence. There was certainly no
motive.
‘Then there’s Miss Emily Brent. Girl, Beatrice Taylor, was in service with
her. Got pregnant, was turned out by her mistress and went and drowned
herself. Not a nice business—but again not criminal.’
‘That,’ said the AC, ‘seems to be the point. U. N. Owen dealt with cases
that the law couldn’t touch.’
Maine went stolidly on with his list.
‘Young Marston was a fairly reckless car driver—had his licence en-
dorsed twice and he ought to have been prohibited from driving in my
opinion. That’s all there is to him. The two names John and Lucy Combes
were those of two kids he knocked down and killed near Cambridge. Some
friends of his gave evidence for him and he was let off with a fine.
‘Can’t find anything definite about General Macarthur. Fine record—
war service—all the rest of it. Arthur Richmond was serving under him in
France and was killed in action. No friction of any kind between him and
the General. They were close friends as a matter of fact. There were some
blunders made about that time—commanding officers sacrificed men un-
necessarily—possibly this was a blunder of that kind.’
‘Possibly,’ said the AC.
‘Now, Philip Lombard. Lombard has been mixed up in some very curi-
ous shows abroad. He’s sailed very near the law once or twice. Got a repu-
tation for daring and for not being over-scrupulous. Sort of fellow who
might do several murders in some quiet out of the way spot.
‘Then we come to Blore.’ Maine hesitated. ‘He of course was one of our
lot.’
The other man stirred.
‘Blore,’ said the Assistant Commissioner forcibly, ‘was a bad hat!’
‘You think so, sir?’
The AC said:
‘I always thought so. But he was clever enough to get away with it. It’s
my opinion that he committed black perjury in the Landor case. I wasn’t
happy about it at the time. But I couldn’t find anything. I put Harris on to
it and he couldn’t find anything but I’m still of the opinion that there was
something to find if we’d known how to set about it. The man wasn’t
straight.’
There was a pause, then Sir Thomas Legge said:
‘And Isaac Morris is dead, you say? When did he die?’
‘I thought you’d soon come to that, sir. Isaac Morris died on the night of
August 8th. Took an overdose of sleeping stuff—one of the barbiturates, I
understand. There wasn’t anything to show whether it was accident or
suicide.’
Legge said slowly:
‘Care to know what I think, Maine?’
‘Perhaps I can guess, sir.’
Legge said heavily:
‘That death of Morris’s is a damned sight too opportune!’
Inspector Maine nodded. He said:
‘I thought you’d say that, sir.’
The Assistant Commissioner brought down his fist with a bang on the
table. He cried out:
‘The whole thing’s fantastic—impossible. Ten people killed on a bare
rock of an island—and we don’t know who did it, or why, or how.’
Maine coughed. He said:
‘Well, it’s not quite like that, sir. We do know why, more or less. Some
fanatic with a bee in his bonnet about justice. He was out to get people
who were beyond the reach of the law. He picked ten people—whether
they were really guilty or not doesn’t matter—’
The Commissioner stirred. He said sharply:
‘Doesn’t it? It seems to me—’
He stopped. Inspector Maine waited respectfully. With a sigh Legge
shook his head.
‘Carry on,’ he said. ‘Just for a minute I felt I’d got somewhere. Got, as it
were, the clue to the thing. It’s gone now. Go ahead with what you were
saying.’
Maine went on:
‘There were ten people to be—executed, let’s say. They were executed. U.
N. Owen accomplished his task. And somehow or other he spirited himself
off that island into thin air.’
The AC said:
‘First-class vanishing trick. But you know, Maine, there must be an ex-
planation.’
Maine said:
‘You’re thinking, sir, that if the man wasn’t on the island, he couldn’t
have left the island, and according to the account of the interested parties
he never was on the island. Well, then the only explanation possible is
that he was actually one of the ten.’
The AC nodded.
Maine said earnestly:
‘We thought of that, sir. We went into it. Now, to begin with, we’re not
quite in the dark as to what happened on Soldier Island. Vera Claythorne
kept a diary, so did Emily Brent. Old Wargrave made some notes—dry
legal cryptic stuff, but quite clear. And Blore made notes too. All those ac-
counts tally. The deaths occurred in this order. Marston, Mrs Rogers, Ma-
carthur, Rogers, Miss Brent, Wargrave. After his death Vera Claythorne’s
diary states that Armstrong left the house in the night and that Blore and
Lombard had gone after him. Blore has one more entry in his notebook.
Just two words. “Armstrong disappeared.”
‘Now, sir, it seemed to me, taking everything into account, that we might
find here a perfectly good solution. Armstrong was drowned, you remem-
ber. Granting that Armstrong was mad, what was to prevent him having
killed off all the others and then committed suicide by throwing himself
over the cliff, or perhaps while trying to swim to the mainland?
‘That was a good solution—but it won’t do. No, sir, it won’t do. First of
all there’s the police surgeon’s evidence. He got to the island early on the
morning of August 13. He couldn’t say much to help us. All he could say
was that all the people had been dead at least thirty-six hours and prob-
ably a good deal longer. But he was fairly definite about Armstrong. Said
he must have been from eight to ten hours in the water before his body
was washed up. That works out at this, that Armstrong must have gone
into the sea sometime during the night of the 10th–11th—and I’ll explain
why. We found the point where the body was washed up—it had been
wedged between two rocks and there were bits of cloth, hair, etc., on
them. It must have been deposited there at high water on the 11th—that’s
to say round about 11 o’clock a.m. After that, the storm subsided, and suc-
ceeding high water marks are considerably lower.
‘You might say, I suppose, that Armstrong managed to polish off the
other three before he went into the sea that night. But there’s another
point and one you can’t get over. Armstrong’s body had been dragged above
high water mark. We found it well above the reach of any tide. And it was
laid out straight on the ground—all neat and tidy.
‘So that settles one point definitely. Someone was alive on the island after
Armstrong was dead.’
He paused and then went on.
‘And that leaves—just what exactly? Here’s the position early on the
morning of the 11th. Armstrong has “disappeared” (drowned ). That leaves
us three people. Lombard, Blore and Vera Claythorne. Lombard was shot.
His body was down by the sea—near Armstrong’s. Vera Claythorne was
found hanged in her own bedroom. Blore’s body was on the terrace. His
head was crushed in by a heavy marble clock that it seems reasonable to
suppose fell on him from the window above.’
The AC said sharply:
‘Whose window?’
‘Vera Claythorne’s. Now, sir, let’s take each of these cases separately.
First Philip Lombard. Let’s say he pushed over that lump of marble on to
Blore—then he doped Vera Claythorne and strung her up. Lastly, he went
down to the seashore and shot himself.
‘But if so, who took away the revolver from him? For that revolver was
found up in the house just inside the door at the top of the stairs—War-
grave’s room.’
The AC said:
‘Any fingerprints on it?’
‘Yes, sir, Vera Claythorne’s.’
‘But, man alive, then—’
‘I know what you’re going to say, sir. That it was Vera Claythorne. That
she shot Lombard, took the revolver back to the house, toppled the marble
block on to Blore and then—hanged herself.
‘And that’s quite all right—up to a point. There’s a chair in her bedroom
and on the seat of it there are marks of seaweed same as on her shoes.
Looks as though she stood on the chair, adjusted the rope round her neck
and kicked away the chair.
‘But that chair wasn’t found kicked over. It was, like all the other chairs,
neatly put back against the wall. That was done after Vera Claythorne’s
death—by someone else.
‘That leaves us with Blore and if you tell me that after shooting Lombard
and inducing Vera Claythorne to hang herself he then went out and pulled
down a whacking great block of marble on himself by tying a string to it
or something like that—well, I simply don’t believe you. Men don’t commit
suicide that way—and what’s more Blore wasn’t that kind of man. We
knew Blore—and he was not the man that you’d ever accuse of a desire
for abstract justice.’
The Assistant Commissioner said:
‘I agree.’
Inspector Maine said:
‘And therefore, sir, there must have been someone else on the island.
Someone who tidied up when the whole business was over. But where
was he all the time—and where did he go to? The Sticklehaven people are
absolutely certain that no one could have left the island before the rescue
boat got there. But in that case—’
He stopped.
The Assistant Commissioner said:
‘In that case—’
He sighed. He shook his head. He leaned forward.
‘But in that case,’ he said, ‘who killed them?’
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