And Then There Were None. Agatha Christie

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      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 naïve 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!’

      Everyone 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 of 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 on to 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.’

      Like the judge, Lombard’s eyes wandered slowly round the room. They rested a minute on the open window, then he shook his head decisively. Suddenly his eyes lighted up. He moved forward swiftly to where a door near the fireplace led into an adjoining room.

      With a swift gesture, he caught the handle and flung the door open. He passed through and immediately uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.

      He said:

      ‘Ah, here we are.’

      The others crowded after him. Only Miss Brent remained alone sitting erect in her chair.

      Inside the second room a table had been brought up close to the wall which adjoined the drawing-room. On the table was a gramophone—an old-fashioned type with a large trumpet attached. The mouth of the trumpet was against the wall, and Lombard, pushing it aside indicated where two or three small holes had been unobtrusively bored through the wall.

      Adjusting the gramophone he replaced the needle on the record and immediately they heard again ‘You are charged with the following indictments—’

      Vera cried:

      ‘Turn it off! Turn it off! It’s horrible!’

      Lombard obeyed.

      Dr Armstrong said, with a sigh of relief:

      ‘A disgraceful and heartless practical joke, I suppose.’

      The small clear voice of Mr Justice Wargrave murmured:

      ‘So you think it’s a joke, do you?’

      The doctor stared at him.

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