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He said:

‘Got any alternative theory?’

‘I’d want some proof. Motive, to begin with. Well off I

should say he was.’

Emily Brent came out of the drawing-room window to meet them.

She said sharply:

‘Is the boat coming?’

‘Not yet,’ said Vera.

They went into breakfast. There was a vast dish of eggs and bacon on the sideboard and tea and coffee.

Rogers held the door open for them to pass in, then shut it from the outside.

Emily Brent said:

‘That man looks ill this morning.’

Dr Armstrong, who was standing by the window, cleared his throat. He said:

‘You must excuse any—er—shortcomings this morning. Rogers has had to do the best he can for breakfast single-handed. Mrs Rogers has—er—not been able to carry on this morning.’

Emily Brent said sharply:

‘What’s the matter with the woman?’

Dr Armstrong said easily:

‘Let us start our breakfast. The eggs will be cold. Afterwards, there are several matters I want to discuss with you all.’

They took the hint. Plates were filled, coffee and tea was poured. The meal began.

Discussion of the island was, by mutual consent, tabooed. They spoke instead in a desultory fashion of current events. The news from abroad, events in the world of sport, the latest reappearance of the Loch Ness monster.

Then, when plates were cleared, Dr Armstrong moved back his chair a little, cleared his throat importantly and spoke.

He said:

‘I thought it better to wait until you had had your breakfast before telling you of a sad piece of news. Mrs Rogers died in her sleep.’

There were startled and shocked ejaculations.

Vera exclaimed:

‘How awful! Two deaths on this island since we arrived!’

Mr Justice Wargrave, his eyes narrowed, said in his small precise clear voice:

‘H’m—very remarkable—what was the cause of death?’

Armstrong shrugged his shoulders.

‘Impossible to say off hand.’

‘There must be an autopsy?’

‘I certainly couldn’t give a certificate. I have no knowledge whatsoever of the woman’s state of health.’

Vera said:

‘She was a very nervous-looking creature. And she had a shock last night. It might have been heart failure, I suppose?’

Dr Armstrong said dryly:

‘Her heart certainly failed to beat—but what caused it to fail is the question.’

One word fell from Emily Brent. It fell hard and clear into the listening group.

‘Conscience!’ she said.

Armstrong turned to her.

‘What exactly do you mean by that, Miss Brent?’

Emily Brent, her lips tight and hard, said:

‘You all heard. She was accused, together with her husband, of having deliberately murdered her former employer—an old lady.’

‘And you think?’

Emily Brent said:

‘I think that that accusation was true. You all saw her last night. She broke down completely and fainted. The shock of having her wickedness brought home to her was too much for her. She literally died of fear.’

Dr Armstrong shook his head doubtfully.

‘It is a possible theory,’ he said. ‘One cannot adopt it without more exact knowledge of her state of health. If there was cardiac weakness—’

Emily Brent said quietly:

‘Call it if you prefer, an Act of God.’