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‘I hadn’t built on it, of course. But it was a bit of a knock. Oh well, luck’s luck! Cyril’s a nice kid. I’m awfully fond of him.’ And he was fond of him, too. Always ready to play games or amuse his small nephew. No rancour in Hugo’s nature.

Cyril wasn’t really strong. A puny child—no stamina. The kind of child, perhaps, who wouldn’t live to grow up…

And then—?

‘Miss Claythorne, why can’t I swim to the rock?

Irritating whiney repetition.

‘It’s too far, Cyril.’

‘But, Miss Claythorne…’

Vera got up. She went to the dressing-table and swallowed three aspirins.

She thought:

‘I wish I had some proper sleeping stuff.’

She thought:

‘If I were doing away with myself I’d take an overdose of veronal—something like that—not cyanide!’

She shuddered as she remembered Anthony Marston’s convulsed purple face.

As she passed the mantelpiece, she looked up at the framed doggerel.

‘Ten little soldier boys went out to dine;

One choked his little self and then there were Nine.’ She thought to herself:

‘It’s horrible—just like us this evening…’

Why had Anthony Marston wanted to die?

She didn’t want to die.

She couldn’t imagine wanting to die…

Death was for—the other people…

Chapter 6

I

Dr Armstrong was dreaming…

It was very hot in the operating-room…

Surely they’d got the temperature too high? The sweat was rolling down his face. His hands were clammy. Difficult to hold the scalpel firmly…

How beautifully sharp it was…

Easy to do a murder with a knife like that. And of course he was doing a murder…

The woman’s body looked different. It had been a large unwieldy body. This was a spare meagre body. And the face was hidden.

Who was it that he had to kill?

He couldn’t remember. But he must know! Should he ask Sister?

Sister was watching him. No, he couldn’t ask her. She was suspicious, he could see that.

But who was it on the operating-table?

They shouldn’t have covered up the face like that…

If he could only see the face…

Ah! that was better. A young probationer was pulling off the handkerchief.

Emily Brent, of course. It was Emily Brent that he had to kill. How malicious her eyes were! Her lips were moving. What was she saying?

‘In the midst of life we are in death…’

She was laughing now. No, nurse, don’t put the handkerchief back. I’ve got to see. I’ve got to give the anaesthetic. Where’s the ether? I must have brought the ether with me. What have you done with the ether, Sister? Chateau Neuf du Pape? Yes, that will do quite as well.

Take the handkerchief away, nurse.

Of course! I knew it all the time! It’s Anthony Marston! His face is purple and convulsed. But he’s not dead—he’s laughing. I tell you he’s laughing! He’s shaking the operating-table.

Look out, man, look out. Nurse, steady it—steady it—

With a start Dr Armstrong woke up. It was morning. Sunlight was pouring into the room.

And someone was leaning over him—shaking him. It was Rogers. Rogers, with a white face, saying: ‘Doctor—doctor!’

Dr Armstrong woke up completely.

He sat up in bed. He said sharply: