Agatha Christie and Then There Were None Read Online

  So There Were None

To Carlo and Mary

This is their volume, defended to them

with much affection.

Contents

About Agatha Christie

The Agatha Christie Collection

Writer's Note

X Little Soldier Boys

Affiliate 1

In the corner of a splendid smoking railroad vehicle, Mr Justice…

Chapter ii

Exterior Oakbridge station a piffling group of people stood in…

Chapter 3

Dinner was drawing to a shut.

Chapter 4

There was a moment's silence. A silence of dismay and…

Affiliate 5

It was then sudden and so unexpected that it took…

Affiliate vi

Dr Armstrong was dreaming…

Chapter vii

After breakfast, Emily Brent had suggested to Vera Claythorne that…

Chapter eight

Blore was easily roped in. He expressed immediate agreement with…

Affiliate nine

Lombard said slowly:

Chapter 10

'Do you believe it?' Vera asked.

Chapter 11

Philip Lombard had the habit of waking at daybreak. He…

Affiliate 12

The meal was over.

Chapter thirteen

'1 of us…One of u.s.…I of united states…'

Affiliate 14

They had carried Mr Justice Wargrave up to his room…

Chapter fifteen

Iii people sat eating breakfast in the kitchen.

Affiliate 16

Aeons passed…worlds spun and whirled…Time was motionless…It stood even so—information technology passed…

Epilogue

Sir Thomas Legge, Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard, said irritably:

Credits

Copyright

www.agathachristie.com

About the Publisher

Author's Annotation

I had written this volume considering it was so difficult to do that the thought had fascinated me. Ten people had to dice without information technology condign ridiculous or the murderer being obvious. I wrote the book after a tremendous amount of planning, and I was pleased with what I had made of it. It was articulate, straightforward, baffling, and even so had a perfectly reasonable caption; in fact it had to take an epilogue in society to explicate it. It was well received and reviewed, merely the person who was really pleased with information technology was myself, for I knew improve than any critic how hard information technology had been.

from An Autobiography

Ten Footling Soldier Boys

X picayune soldier boys went out to dine;

One choked his little cocky and then at that place were Nine.

9 footling soldier boys sabbatum upward very late;

Ane overslept himself and and then there were 8.

Eight little soldier boys travelling in Devon;

One said he'd stay there and so there were Seven.

Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks;

1 chopped himself in halves and then in that location were Six.

Six trivial soldier boys playing with a hive;

A bumble bee stung one and so there were Five.

Five little soldier boys going in for law;

One got in Chancery and then there were 4.

Four piddling soldier boys going out to sea;

A red herring swallowed one and and then at that place were Three.

3 little soldier boys walking in the Zoo;

A big carry hugged ane and and so at that place were Two.

Two little soldier boys sitting in the sun;

One got frizzled upward then there was One.

One little soldier male child left all alone;

He went and hanged himself

And then there were None.

Frank Greenish, 1869

Chapter one

I

In the corner of a first-course smoking carriage, Mr Justice Wargrave, lately retired from the bench, puffed at a cigar and ran an interested eye through the political news in The Times.

He laid the paper down and glanced out of the window. They were running now through Somerset. He glanced at his watch—some other two hours to become.

He went over in his mind all that had appeared in the papers about Soldier Island. At that place had been its original purchase past an American millionaire who was crazy about yachting—and an account of the luxurious mod house he had congenital on this piffling island off the Devon coast. The unfortunate fact that the new third wife of the American millionaire was a bad sailor had led to the subsequent putting up of the house and island for auction. Various glowing advertisements of information technology had appeared in the papers. And then came the offset baldheaded statement that it had been bought—by a Mr Owen. After that the rumours of the gossip writers had started. Soldier Island had really been bought by Miss Gabrielle Turl, the Hollywood film star! She wanted to spend some months at that place gratis from all publicity! Decorated Bee had hinted delicately that it was to be an abode for Royalty??! Mr Merryweather had had it whispered to him that it had been bought for a honeymoon—Young Lord 50—had surrendered to Cupid at final! Jonas knew for a fact that it had been purchased by the Admiralty with a view to carrying out some very hush-hush experiments!

Definitely, Soldier Island was news!

From his pocket Mr Justice Wargrave drew out a letter. The handwriting was practically illegible but words here and at that place stood out with unexpected clarity. Dear Lawrence…such years since I heard anything of you…must come to Soldier Island…the almost enchanting place…so much to talk over…old days…communion with nature…bask in sunshine…12.40 from Paddington…run across you at Oakbridge…and his correspondent signed herself with a flourish his e'er Constance Culmington.

Mr Justice Wargrave cast back in his mind to recall when exactly he had last seen Lady Constance Culmington. It must be seven—no, eight years agone. She had then been going to Italy to savour in the sun and be at i with Nature and the contadini. Later, he had heard, she had proceeded to Syria where she proposed to bask in a yet stronger sun and live at one with Nature and the bedouin.

Constance Culmington, he reflected to himself, was exactly the sort of woman who would buy an island and surround herself with mystery! Nodding his head in gentle approval of his logic, Mr Justice Wargrave immune his head to nod…

He slept…

II

Vera Claythorne, in a third-class carriage with 5 other travellers in it, leaned her head back and close her eyes. How hot it was travelling by train today! It would be nice to become to the sea! Really a great piece of luck getting this job. When you wanted a vacation postal service it nearly ever meant looking after a swarm of children—secretarial holiday posts were much more difficult to get. Even the agency hadn't held out much hope.

And then the letter had come.

'I take received your proper noun from the Skilled Women'due south Agency together with their recommendation. I understand they know y'all personally. I shall be glad to pay yous the salary you ask and shall expect you to take up your duties on Baronial 8th. The train is the 12.40 from Paddington and you will be met at Oakbridge station. I enclose five £1 notes for expenses.

Yours truly,

Una Nancy Owen.'

And at the top was the stamped address, Soldier Island, Sticklehaven, Devon…

Soldier Island! Why, there had been nil else in the papers lately! All sorts of hints and interesting rumours. Though probably they were mostly untrue. But the house had certainly been built by a millionaire and was said to be absolutely the last word in luxury.

Vera Claythorne, tired by a recent strenuous term at schoolhouse, thought to herself, 'Being a games mistress in a third-class school isn't much of a grab…If only I could get a job at some de

cent schoolhouse.'

And then, with a cold feeling circular her center, she thought: 'But I'k lucky to take even this. Later all, people don't like a Coroner'southward Inquest, even if the Coroner did acquit me of all blame!'

He had even complimented her on her presence of mind and courage, she remembered. For an inquest it couldn't have gone better. And Mrs Hamilton had been kindness itself to her—only Hugo—simply she wouldn't think of Hugo!

Suddenly, in spite of the oestrus in the carriage she shivered and wished she wasn't going to the sea. A moving picture rose conspicuously before her listen. Cyril's head, bobbing upwards and down, swimming to the rock…Upward and down—upward and downwardly…And herself, pond in easy practised strokes after him—cleaving her style through the h2o but knowing, only also surely, that she wouldn't be in time…

The sea—its deep warm blue—mornings spent lying out on the sands—Hugo—Hugo who had said he loved her…

She must not think of Hugo…

She opened her eyes and frowned beyond at the human opposite her. A tall man with a brown face up, low-cal eyes fix rather close together and an arrogant, almost cruel oral cavity.

She thought to herself:

I bet he'southward been to some interesting parts of the world and seen some interesting things…

III

Philip Lombard, summing up the girl opposite in a mere flash of his quick moving eyes thought to himself:

'Quite attractive—a flake schoolmistressy possibly.'

A cool customer, he should imagine—and one who could concur her own—in love or war. He'd rather similar to have her on…

He frowned. No, cut out all that kind of stuff. This was business. He'd got to keep his mind on the task.

What exactly was upwards, he wondered? That little Jew had been damned mysterious.

'Take it or leave it, Helm Lombard.'

He had said thoughtfully:

'A hundred guineas, eh?'

He had said information technology in a casual way equally though a hundred guineas was nothing to him. A hundred guineas when he was literally down to his terminal square repast! He had fancied, though, that the little Jew had non been deceived—that was the damnable part about Jews, y'all couldn't deceive them well-nigh money—they knew!

He said in the aforementioned casual tone:

'And you can't give me whatsoever further data?'

Mr Isaac Morris had shaken his niggling bald head very positively.

'No, Captain Lombard, the affair rests in that location. Information technology is understood by my client that your reputation is that of a proficient man in a tight identify. I am empowered to hand you ane hundred guineas in return for which you lot will travel to Sticklehaven, Devon. The nearest station is Oakbridge, you will be met in that location and motored to Sticklehaven where a motor launch volition convey you to Soldier Island. In that location yous will hold yourself at the disposal of my client.'

Lombard had said abruptly:

'For how long?'

'Not longer than a week at near.'

Fingering his minor moustache, Captain Lombard said:

'You understand I can't undertake anything—illegal?'

He had darted a very sharp glance at the other as he had spoken. In that location had been a very faint smile on the thick Semitic lips of Mr Morris every bit he answered gravely:

'If anything illegal is proposed, you volition, of form, exist at perfect liberty to withdraw.'

Damn the polish little brute, he had smiled! It was equally though he knew very well that in Lombard's past deportment legality had not always been a sine qua not…

Lombard's own lips parted in a smile.

By Jove, he'd sailed pretty near the current of air once or twice! Simply he'd e'er got away with it! In that location wasn't much he drew the line at actually…

No, at that place wasn't much he'd depict the line at. He fancied that he was going to savor himself at Soldier Island…

Iv

In a non-smoking carriage Miss Emily Brent sat very upright as was her custom. She was sixty-five and she did not approve of lounging. Her father, a Colonel of the old school, had been particular about deportment.

The present generation was shamelessly lax—in their wagon, and in every other way…

Enveloped in an aura of righteousness and unyielding principles, Miss Brent sat in her crowded third-form carriage and triumphed over its discomfort and its heat. Anybody made such a fuss over things nowadays! They wanted injections earlier they had teeth pulled—they took drugs if they couldn't slumber—they wanted like shooting fish in a barrel chairs and cushions and the girls allowed their figures to slop most anyway and lay near half naked on the beaches in summertime.

Miss Brent'south lips set closely. She would like to brand an instance of sure people.

She remembered last year's summer vacation. This year, notwithstanding, information technology would exist quite different. Soldier Island…

Mentally she re-read the alphabetic character which she had already read and then many times.

'Dear Miss Brent,

I do hope you remember me? We were together at Belhaven Guest House in August some years ago, and we seemed to take so much in common.

I am starting a invitee house of my own on an island off the coast of Devon. I think there is really an opening for a place where there is good plainly cooking and a nice old-fashioned type of person. None of this nudity and gramophones half the nighttime. I shall be very glad if you could see your way to spending your summertime vacation on Soldier Island—quite gratis—as my guest. Would early in Baronial suit you lot? Perhaps the 8th.

Yours sincerely,

U.N.O—.'

What was the proper noun? The signature was rather difficult to read. Emily Brent thought impatiently: 'And so many people write their signatures quite illegibly.'

She let her heed run back over the people at Belhaven. She had been at that place two summers running. There had been that nice middle-anile woman—Miss—Miss—now what was her name?—her father had been a Canon. And there had been a Mrs Olton—Ormen—No, surely it was Oliver! Yes—Oliver.

Soldier Isle! In that location had been things in the paper nearly Soldier Island—something about a pic star—or was information technology an American millionaire?

Of grade ofttimes those places went very cheap—islands didn't suit everybody. They thought the idea was romantic merely when they came to live at that place they realized the disadvantages and were only too glad to sell.

Emily Brent thought to herself: 'I shall be getting a free holiday at any rate.'

With her income and so much reduced and so many dividends not beingness paid, that was indeed something to have into consideration. If only she could remember a little more near Mrs—or was it Miss—Oliver?

V

General Macarthur looked out of the carriage window. The train was but coming into Exeter, where he had to change. Damnable, these deadening branch line trains! This place, Soldier Isle, was actually no distance at all equally the crow flies.

He hadn't got it clear who this fellow Owen was. A friend of Spoof Leggard's, obviously—and of Johnnie Dyer's.

'—1 or ii of your onetime cronies are coming—would like to take a talk over sometime times.'

Well, he'd enjoy a chat about onetime times. He'd had a fancy lately that fellows were rather fighting shy of him. All owing to that damned rumour! Past God, it was pretty hard—nearly thirty years ago now! Armitage had talked, he supposed. Damned immature pup! What did he know about it? Oh, well, no good brooding about these things! One fancied things sometimes—fancied a fellow was looking at you lot queerly.

This Soldier Island, at present, he'd be interested to see it. A lot of gossip flying well-nigh. Looked as though at that place might be something in the rumour that the Admiralty or the State of war Office or the Air Force had got hold of it…

Young Elmer Robson, the American millionaire, had actually built the place. Spent thousands on it, so information technology was said. Every mortal luxury…

Exeter! And an hour to wait! And he didn't desire to wait. He wanted to get on…

Vi

Dr Armstrong was driving his Morris across Salisbury Plain. He was very tired…Success had its penalties. There had been a time when he had sabbatum in his co

nsulting room in Harley Street, correctly apparelled, surrounded with the most up to date appliances and the most luxurious effects and waited—waited through the empty days for his venture to succeed or fail…

Well, information technology had succeeded! He'd been lucky! Lucky and skilful of course. He was a good man at his task—merely that wasn't enough for success. Yous had to have luck as well. And he'd had it! An accurate diagnosis, a couple of grateful women patients—women with money and position—and give-and-take had got about. 'Y'all ought to try Armstrong—quite a young man—but and then clever—Pam had been to all sorts of people for years and he put his finger on the problem at once!' The ball had started rolling.

And now Dr Armstrong had definitely arrived. His days were full. He had little leisure. And so, on this August morning, he was glad that he was leaving London and going to be for some days on an island off the Devon coast. Not that it was exactly a holiday. The letter he had received had been rather vague in its terms, but in that location was nothing vague about the accompanying cheque. A whacking fee. These Owens must be rolling in money. Some niggling difficulty, it seemed, a husband who was worried near his married woman's health and wanted a report on it without her being alarmed. She wouldn't hear of seeing a doctor. Her nerves—

Nerves! The doctor's eyebrows went upwardly. These women and their nerves! Well, it was good for business concern after all. Half the women who consulted him had zilch the matter with them but boredom, simply they wouldn't thank you for telling them so! And i could ordinarily discover something.

'A slightly uncommon condition of the (some long word) nothing at all serious—but it needs just putting right. A simple handling.'

Well, medicine was mostly faith-healing when it came to information technology. And he had a good style—he could inspire hope and conventionalities.

Lucky that he'd managed to pull himself together in time later on that business organisation x—no, 15 years agone. It had been a near matter, that! He'd been going to pieces. The shock had pulled him together. He'd cut out drink altogether. By Jove, information technology had been a near thing, though…

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