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Five minutes later three men stood on an upper landing and looked at each other. They were dirty and festooned with cobwebs and their faces were grim.

There was no one on the island but their eight selves.

Chapter 9

I

Lombard said slowly:

‘So we’ve been wrong—wrong all along! Built up a nightmare of superstition and fantasy all because of the coincidence of two deaths!’

Armstrong said gravely:

‘And yet, you know, the argument holds. Hang it all, I’m a doctor, I know something about suicides. Anthony Marston wasn’t a suicidal type.’

Lombard said doubtfully:

‘It couldn’t, I suppose, have been an accident?’

Blore snorted, unconvinced.

‘Damned queer sort of accident,’ he grunted.

There was a pause, then Blore said:

‘About the woman—’ and stopped.

‘Mrs Rogers?’

‘Yes. It’s possible, isn’t it, that that might have been an accident?’

Philip Lombard said:

‘An accident? In what way?’

Blore looked slightly embarrassed. His red-brick face grew a little deeper in hue. He said, almost blurting out the words:

‘Look here, doctor, you did give her some dope, you know.’

Armstrong stared at him.

‘Dope? What do you mean?’

‘Last night. You said yourself you’d given her something to make her sleep.’

‘Oh that, yes. A harmless sedative.’

‘What was it exactly?’

‘I gave her a mild dose of trional. A perfectly harmless preparation.’

Blore grew redder still. He said:

‘Look here—not to mince matters—you didn’t give her an overdose, did you?’

Dr Armstrong said angrily:

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Blore said:

‘It’s possible, isn’t it, that you may have made a mistake? These things do happen once in a while.’

Armstrong said sharply:

‘I did nothing of the sort. The suggestion is ridiculous.’ He stopped and added in a cold biting tone: ‘Or do you suggest that I gave her an overdose on purpose?’

Philip Lombard said quickly:

‘Look here, you two, got to keep our heads. Don’t let’s start slinging accusations about.’

Blore said sullenly:

‘I only suggested the doctor had made a mistake.’

Dr Armstrong smiled with an effort. He said, showing his teeth in a somewhat mirthless smile:

‘Doctors can’t afford to make mistakes of that kind, my friend.’

Blore said deliberately:

‘It wouldn’t be the first you’ve made—if that gramophone record is to be believed!’

Armstrong went white. Philip Lombard said quickly and angrily to Blore:

‘What’s the sense of making yourself offensive? We’re all in the same boat. We’ve got to pull together. What about your own pretty little spot of perjury?’

Blore took a step forward, his hands clenched. He said in a thick voice:

‘Perjury, be damned! That’s a foul lie! You may try and shut me up, Mr Lombard, but there’s things I want to know—and one of them is about you!’

Lombard’s eyebrows rose.

‘About me?’

‘Yes. I want to know why you brought a revolver down here on a pleasant social visit?’

Lombard said:

‘You do, do you?’

‘Yes, I do, Mr Lombard.’

Lombard said unexpectedly:

‘You know, Blore, you’re not nearly such a fool as you look.’

‘That’s as may be. What about that revolver?’