Десять негритят / And Then There Were None

«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 embroidery 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 any one 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 nanve 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 pointed to twenty minutes past nine. There was a silence – a comfortable replete silence.

Into that silence came The Voice. Without warning, inhuman, penetrating…

«Ladies and gentlemen! Silence, please!»

Every one 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 indictments:

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 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 deliberately 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?

II

The Voice had stopped.

There was a moment’s petrified silence and then a resounding crash! Rogers had dropped the coffee tray!

At the same moment, from somewhere outside the room there came a scream and the sound of a thud.

Lombard was the first to move. He leapt to the door and flung it open. Outside, lying in a huddled mass, was Mrs. Rogers.

Lombard called: «Marston.»

Anthony sprang to help him. Between them, they lifted up the woman and carried her into the drawing-room.

Dr. Armstrong came across quickly. He helped them to lift her onto the sofa and bent over her. He said quickly:

«It’s nothing. She’s fainted, that’s all. She’ll be round in a minute.»

Lombard said to Rogers:

«Get some brandy.»

Rogers, his face white, his hands shaking, murmured: «Yes, sir,» and slipped quickly out of the room.

Vera cried out: «Who was that speaking? Where was he? It sounded – it sounded —»

General Macarthur spluttered out:

«What’s going on here? What kind of a practical joke was that?»

His hand was shaking. His shoulders sagged. He looked suddenly ten years older.

Blore was mopping his face with a handkerchief.

Only Mr. Justice Wargrave and Miss Brent seemed comparatively unmoved. Emily Brent sat upright, her head held high. In both cheeks was a spot of hard colour. The judge sat in his habitual pose, his head sunk down into his neck. With one hand he gently scratched his ear. Only his eyes were active, darting round and round the room, puzzled, alert with intelligence.

Again it was Lombard who acted. Armstrong being busy with the collapsed woman, Lombard was free once more to take the initiative.

He said: «That voice? It sounded as though it were in the room.»

Vera cried: «Who was it? Who was it? It wasn’t one of us.»