V

The eggs were in the frying-pan. Vera, toasting bread, thought to herself:

‘Why did I make a hysterical fool of myself? That was a mistake. Keep calm, my girl, keep calm.’

After all, she’d always prided herself on her levelheadedness!

‘Miss Claythorne was wonderful—kept her head—started off swimming after Cyril at once.’

Why think of that now? All that was over—over… Cyril had disappeared long before she got near the rock. She had felt the current take her, sweeping her out to sea. She had let herself go with it—swimming quietly, floating—till the boat arrived at last…

They had praised her courage and her sang-froid…

But not Hugo. Hugo had just—looked at her…

God, how it hurt, even now, to think of Hugo…

Where was he? What was he doing? Was he engaged—married?

Emily Brent said sharply:

‘Vera, that toast is burning.’

‘Oh sorry, Miss Brent, so it is. How stupid of me.’ Emily Brent lifted out the last egg from the sizzling fat.

Vera, putting a fresh piece of bread on the toasting fork, said curiously:

‘You’re wonderfully calm, Miss Brent.’

Emily Brent said, pressing her lips together:

‘I was brought up to keep my head and never to make a fuss.’

Vera thought mechanically:

‘Repressed as a child… That accounts for a lot…’

She said:

‘Aren’t you afraid?’

She paused and then added:

‘Or don’t you mind dying?’

Dying! It was as though a sharp little gimlet had run into the solid congealed mess of Emily Brent’s brain. Dying? But she wasn’t going to die! The others would die—yes—but not she, Emily Brent. This girl didn’t understand! Emily wasn’t afraid, naturally—none of the Brents were afraid. All her people were Service people. They faced death unflinchingly. They led upright lives just as she, Emily Brent, had led an upright life… She had never done anything to be ashamed of… And so, naturally, she wasn’t going to die…

‘The Lord is mindful of his own.’ ‘Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day…’ It was daylight now—there was no terror. ‘We shall none of us leave this island.’ Who had said that? General Macarthur, of course, whose cousin had married Elsie MacPherson. He hadn’t seemed to care. He had seemed—actually—to welcome the idea! Wicked! Almost impious to feel that way. Some people thought so little of death that they actually took their own lives. Beatrice Taylor… Last night she had dreamed of Beatrice—dreamt that she was outside pressing her face against the window and moaning, asking to be let in. But Emily Brent hadn’t wanted to let her in. Because, if she did, something terrible would happen…

Emily came to herself with a start. That girl was looking at her very strangely. She said in a brisk voice:

‘Everything’s ready, isn’t it? We’ll take the breakfast in.’

VI

Breakfast was a curious meal. Every one was very polite.

‘May I get you some more coffee, Miss Brent?’

‘Miss Claythorne, a slice of ham?’

‘Another piece of toast?’

Six people, all outwardly self-possessed and normal.

And within? Thoughts that ran round in a circle like squirrels in a cage…

‘What next? What next? Who? Which?’

‘Would it work? I wonder. It’s worth trying. If there’s time. My God, if there’s time…’

‘Religious mania, that’s the ticket… Looking at her, though, you can hardly believe it… Suppose I’m wrong…?’

‘It’s crazy—everything’s crazy. I’m going crazy. Wool disappearing—red silk curtains—it doesn’t make sense. I can’t get the hang of it…’

‘The damned fool, he believed every word I said to him. It was easy… I must be careful, though, very careful.’

‘Six of those little china figures… only six—how many will there be by tonight?..’

‘Who’ll have the last egg?’

‘Marmalade?’

‘Thanks, can I cut you some bread?’

Six people, behaving normally at breakfast…

Chapter 12

I

The meal was over.

Mr Justice Wargrave cleared his throat. He said in a small authoritative voice:

‘It would be advisable, I think, if we met to discuss the situation. Shall we say in half an hour’s time in the drawingroom?’

Every one made a sound suggestive of agreement.

Vera began to pile plates together.

She said:

‘I’ll clear away and wash up.’

Philip Lombard said:

‘We’ll bring the stuff out to the pantry for you.’

‘Thanks.’

Emily Brent, rising to her feet sat down again. She said: ‘Oh dear.’

The judge said:

‘Anything the matter, Miss Brent?’

Emily said apologetically:

‘I’m sorry. I’d like to help Miss Claythorne, but I don’t know how it is. I feel just a little giddy.’

‘Giddy, eh?’ Dr Armstrong came towards her. ‘Quite natural. Delayed shock. I can give you something to—’

‘No!’

The word burst from her lips like an exploding shell.

It took every one aback. Dr Armstrong flushed a deep red.

There was no mistaking the fear and suspicion in her face. He said stiffly:

‘Just as you please, Miss Brent.’

She said:

‘I don’t wish to take anything—anything at all. I will just sit here quietly till the giddiness passes off.’

They finished clearing away the breakfast things.

Blore said:

‘I’m a domestic sort of man. I’ll give you a hand, Miss Claythorne.’

Vera said: ‘Thank you.’

Emily Brent was left alone sitting in the dining-room.

For a while she heard a faint murmur of voices from the pantry.

The giddiness was passing. She felt drowsy now, as though she could easily go to sleep.

There was a buzzing in her ears—or was it a real buzzing in the room?

She thought:

‘It’s like a bee—a bumble bee.’

Presently she saw the bee. It was crawling up the window-pane.

Vera Claythorne had talked about bees this morning.

Bees and honey…

She liked honey. Honey in the comb, and strain it yourself through a muslin bag. Drip, drip, drip…

There was somebody in the room… somebody all wet and dripping… Beatrice Taylor come from the river…

She had only to turn her head and she would see her.

But she couldn’t turn her head.

If she were to call out…

But she couldn’t call out…

There was no one else in the house. She was all alone…

She heard footsteps—soft dragging footsteps coming up behind her. The stumbling footsteps of the drowned girl…

There was a wet dank smell in her nostrils…

On the window-pane the bee was buzzing—buzzing… And then she felt the prick.

The bee sting on the side of her neck…

II

In the drawing-room they were waiting for Emily Brent.

Vera Claythorne said:

‘Shall I go and fetch her?’

Blore said quickly:

‘Just a minute.’

Vera sat down again. Every one looked inquiringly at Blore. He said:

‘Look here, everybody, my opinion’s this: we needn’t look farther for the author of these deaths than the dining-room at this minute. I’d take my oath that woman’s the one we’re after!’

Armstrong said:

‘And the motive?’

‘Religious mania. What do you say, doctor?’

Armstrong said:

‘It’s perfectly possible. I’ve nothing to say against it. But of course we’ve no proof.’

Vera said:

‘She was very odd in the kitchen when we were getting breakfast. Her eyes—’ She shivered.

Lombard said:

‘You can’t judge her by that. We’re all a bit off our heads by now!’

Blore said:

‘There’s another thing. She’s the only one who wouldn’t give an explanation after that gramophone record. Why? Because she hadn’t any to give.’

Vera stirred in her chair. She said:

‘That’s not quite true. She told me—afterwards.’ Wargrave said:

‘What did she tell you, Miss Claythorne?’

Vera repeated the story of Beatrice Taylor.

Mr Justice Wargrave observed:

‘A perfectly straightforward story. I personally should have no difficulty in accepting it. Tell me, Miss Claythorne, did she appear to be troubled by a sense of guilt or a feeling of remorse for her attitude in the matter?’

‘None whatever,’ said Vera. ‘She was completely unmoved.’

Blore said:

‘Hearts as hard as flints, these righteous spinsters! Envy, mostly!’

Mr Justice Wargrave said:

‘It is now five minutes to eleven. I think we should summon Miss Brent to join our conclave.’

Blore said:

‘Aren’t you going to take any action?’

The judge said:

‘I fail to see what action we can take. Our suspicions are, at the moment, only suspicions. I will, however, ask

Dr Armstrong to observe Miss Brent’s demeanour very carefully. Let us now go into the dining-room.’

They found Emily Brent sitting in the chair in which they had left her. From behind they saw nothing amiss, except that she did not seem to hear their entrance into the room.

And then they saw her face—suffused with blood, with blue lips and starting eyes.

Blore said:

‘My God, she’s dead!’