LITMIR.BIZ

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it, in a gleaming chromium frame, was a big square of parchment—a poem.

      She stood in front of the fireplace and read it. It was the old nursery rhyme that she remembered from her childhood days.

      Ten little soldier boys went out to dine;

      One choked his little self and then there were Nine.

      Nine little soldier boys sat up very late;

      One overslept himself and then there were Eight.

      Eight little soldier boys travelling in Devon;

      One said he’d stay there and then there were Seven.

      Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks;

      One chopped himself in halves and then there were Six.

      Six little soldier boys playing with a hive;

      A bumble bee stung one and then there were Five.

      Five little soldier boys going in for law;

      One got in Chancery and then there were Four.

      Four little soldier boys going out to sea;

      A red herring swallowed one and then there were Three.

      Three little soldier boys walking in the Zoo;

      A big bear hugged one and then there were Two.

      Two little soldier boys sitting in the sun;

      One got frizzled up and then there was One.

      One little soldier boy left all alone;

      He went and hanged himself and then there were None.

      Vera smiled. Of course! This was Soldier Island!

      She went and sat again by the window looking out to sea.

      How big the sea was! From here there was no land to be seen anywhere—just a vast expanse of blue water rippling in the evening sun.

      The sea… So peaceful today—sometimes so cruel… The sea that dragged you down to its depths. Drowned… Found drowned… Drowned at sea… Drowned—drowned—drowned…

      No, she wouldn’t remember… She would not think of it! All that was over…

      VI

      Dr Armstrong came to Soldier Island just as the sun was sinking into the sea. On the way across he had chatted to the boatman—a local man. He was anxious to find out a little about these people who owned Soldier Island, but the man Narracott seemed curiously ill-informed, or perhaps unwilling to talk.

      So Dr Armstrong chatted instead of the weather and of fishing.

      He was tired after his long motor drive. His eyeballs ached. Driving west you were driving against the sun.

      Yes, he was very tired. The sea and perfect peace—that was what he needed. He would like, really, to take a long holiday. But he couldn’t afford to do that. He could afford it financially, of course, but he couldn’t afford to drop out. You were soon forgotten nowadays. No, now that he had arrived, he must keep his nose to the grindstone.

      He thought:

      ‘All the same, this evening, I’ll imagine to myself that I’m not going back—that I’ve done with London and Harley Street and all the rest of it.’

      There was something magical about an island—the mere word suggested fantasy. You lost touch with the world—an island was a world of its own. A world, perhaps, from which you might never return.

      He thought:

      ‘I’m leaving my ordinary life behind me.’

      And, smiling to himself, he began to make plans, fantastic plans for the future. He was still smiling when he walked up the rock cut steps.

      In a chair on the terrace an old gentleman was sitting and the sight of him was vaguely familiar to Dr Armstrong. Where had he seen that frog-like face, that tortoise-like neck, that hunched up attitude—yes and those pale shrewd little eyes? Of course—old Wargrave. He’d given evidence once before him. Always looked half-asleep, but was shrewd as could be when it came to a point of law. Had great power with a jury—it was said he could make their minds up for them any day of the week. He’d got one or two unlikely convictions out of them. A hanging judge, some people said.

      Funny place to meet him… here—out of the world.

      VII

      Mr Justice Wargrave thought to himself:

      ‘Armstrong? Remember him in the witness-box. Very correct and cautious. All doctors are damned fools. Harley Street ones are the worst of the lot.’ And his mind dwelt malevolently on a recent interview he had had with a suave personage in that very street.

      Aloud he grunted:

      ‘Drinks are in the hall.’

      Dr Armstrong said:

      ‘I must go and pay my respects to my host and hostess.’

      Mr Justice Wargrave closed his eyes again, looking decidedly reptilian, and said:

      ‘You can’t do that.’

      Dr Armstrong was startled.

      ‘Why not?’

      The judge said:

      ‘No host and hostess. Very curious state of affairs. Don’t understand this place.’

      Dr Armstrong stared at him for a minute. When he thought the old gentleman had actually gone to sleep, Wargrave said suddenly:

      ‘D’you know Constance Culmington?’

      ‘Er—no, I’m afraid I don’t.’

      ‘It’s of no consequence,’ said the judge. ‘Very vague woman—and practically unreadable handwriting. I was just wondering if I’d come to the wrong house.’

      Dr Armstrong shook his head and went on up to the house.

      Mr Justice Wargrave reflected on the subject of Constance Culmington. Undependable like all women.

      His mind went on to the two women in the house, the tight-lipped old maid and the girl. He didn’t care for the girl, cold-blooded young hussy. No, three women, if you counted the Rogers woman. Odd creature, she looked scared to death. Respectable pair and knew their job.

      Rogers coming out on the terrace that minute, the judge asked him:

      ‘Is Lady Constance Culmington expected, do you know?’

      Rogers stared at him.

      ‘No, sir, not to my knowledge.’

      The judge’s eyebrows rose. But he only grunted. He thought:

      ‘Soldier Island, eh? There’s a fly in the ointment.’

      VIII

      Anthony Marston was in his bath. He luxuriated in the steaming water. His limbs had felt cramped after his long drive. Very few thoughts passed through his head. Anthony was a creature of sensation—and of action.

      He thought to himself:

      ‘Must go through with it, I suppose,’ and thereafter dismissed everything from his mind.

      Warm steaming water—tired limbs—presently a shave—a cocktail—dinner.

      And after—?

      IX

      Mr Blore was tying his tie. He wasn’t very good at this sort of thing.

      Did he look all right? He supposed so.

      Nobody had been exactly cordial to him… Funny the way they all eyed each other—as though they knew…

      Well, it was up to him.

      He didn’t mean to bungle his job.

      He

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