And Then There Were None

‘Claythorne,’ said Vera.

‘My name is Lombard, Philip Lombard.’

The porters were piling luggage on the taxi. Inside, Mr Justice Wargrave said with due legal caution:

‘Beautiful weather we are having.’

Miss Brent said:

‘Yes, indeed.’

A very distinguished old gentleman, she thought to herself. Quite unlike the usual type of man in seaside guest houses. Evidently Mrs or Miss Oliver had good connections…

Mr Justice Wargrave inquired:

‘Do you know this part of the world well?’

‘I have been to Cornwall and to Torquay, but this is my first visit to this part of Devon.’

The judge said:

‘I also am unacquainted with this part of the world.’ The taxi drove off.

The driver of the second taxi said:

‘Like to sit inside while you’re waiting?’

Vera said decisively:

‘Not at all.’

Captain Lombard smiled. He said:

‘That sunny wall looks more attractive. Unless you’d rather go inside the station?’

‘No, indeed. It’s so delightful to get out of that stuffy train.’

He answered:

‘Yes, travelling by train is rather trying in this weather.’

Vera said conventionally:

‘I do hope it lasts—the weather, I mean. Our English summers are so treacherous.’

With a slight lack of originality Lombard asked:

‘Do you know this part of the world well?’

‘No, I’ve never been here before.’ She added quickly, conscientiously determined to make her position clear at once, ‘I haven’t even seen my employer yet.’

‘Your employer?’

‘Yes, I’m Mrs Owen’s secretary.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Just imperceptibly his manner changed. It was slightly more assured—easier in tone. He said: ‘Isn’t that rather unusual?’

Vera laughed.

‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. Her own secretary was suddenly taken ill and she wired to an agency for a substitute and they sent me.’

‘So that was it. And suppose you don’t like the post when you’ve got there?’

Vera laughed again.

‘Oh, it’s only temporary—a holiday post. I’ve got a permanent job at a girls’ school. As a matter of fact, I’m frightfully thrilled at the prospect of seeing Soldier Island. There’s been such a lot about it in the papers. Is it really very fascinating?’

Lombard said:

‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen it.’

‘Oh, really? The Owens are frightfully keen on it, I suppose. What are they like? Do tell me.’

Lombard thought: Awkward, this—am I supposed to have met them or not? He said quickly:

‘There’s a wasp crawling up your arm. No—keep quite still.’ He made a convincing pounce. ‘There. It’s gone!’

‘Oh, thank you. There are a lot of wasps about this summer.’

‘Yes, I suppose it’s the heat. Who are we waiting for, do you know?’

‘I haven’t the least idea.’

The loud drawn-out scream of an approaching train was heard. Lombard said:

‘That will be the train now.’

It was a tall soldierly old man who appeared at the exit from the platform. His grey hair was clipped close and he had a neatly trimmed white moustache.

His porter, staggering slightly under the weight of the solid leather suitcase, indicated Vera and Lombard.

Vera came forward in a competent manner. She said:

‘I am Mrs Owen’s secretary. There is a car here waiting.’ She added, ‘This is Mr Lombard.’

The faded blue eyes, shrewd in spite of their age, sized up Lombard. For a moment a judgment showed in them—had there been any one to read it.

‘Good-looking fellow. Something just a little wrong about him…’