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Hugo, upstairs, waiting for her…

‘One little soldier boy left all alone.’ What was the last line again? Something about being married—or was it something else?

She had come now to the door of her room. Hugo was waiting for her inside—she was quite sure of it.

She opened the door…

She gave a gasp…

What was that—hanging from the hook in the ceiling? A rope with a noose all ready? And a chair to stand upon—a chair that could be kicked away…

That was what Hugo wanted…

And of course that was the last line of the rhyme.

‘He went and hanged himself and then there were None…’

The little china figure fell from her hand. It rolled unheeded and broke against the fender.

Like an automaton Vera moved forward. This was the end—here where the cold wet hand (Cyril’s hand, of course) had touched her throat…

‘You can go to the rock, Cyril…’

That was what murder was—as easy as that!

But afterwards you went on remembering…

She climbed up on the chair, her eyes staring in front of her like a sleepwalker’s. She adjusted the noose round her neck.

Hugo was there to see she did what she had to do. She kicked away the chair…

vEpilogue

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

‘But the whole thing’s incredible!’ Inspector Maine said respectfully:

‘I know, sir.’

The AC went on:

‘Ten people dead on an island and not a living soul on it. It doesn’t make sense!’

Inspector Maine said stolidly: ‘Nevertheless, it happened, sir.’

Sir Thomas Legge said:

‘Dam’ it all, Maine, somebody must have killed ’em.’

‘That’s just our problem, sir.’

‘Nothing helpful in the doctor’s report?’

‘No, sir. Wargrave and Lombard were shot, the first through the head, the second through the heart. Miss Brent and Marston died of cyanide poisoning. Mrs Rogers died of an overdose of chloral. Rogers’ head was split open. Blore’s head was crushed in. Armstrong died of drowning. Macarthur’s skull was fractured by a blow on the back of the head and Vera Claythorne was hanged.’

The AC winced. He said:

‘Nasty business—all of it.’

He considered for a minute or two. He said irritably:

‘Do you mean to say that you haven’t been able to get anything helpful out of the Sticklehaven people? Dash it, they must know something.’

Inspector Maine shrugged his shoulders.

‘They’re ordinary decent seafaring folk. They know that the island was bought by a man called Owen—and that’s about all they do know.’

‘Who provisioned the island and made all the necessary arrangements?’

‘Man called Morris. Isaac Morris.’

‘And what does he say about it all?’

‘He can’t say anything, sir, he’s dead.’

The AC frowned.

‘Do we know anything about this Morris?’

‘Oh yes, sir, we know about him. He wasn’t a very savoury gentleman, Mr Morris. He was implicated in that sharepushing fraud of Bennitos three years ago—we’re sure of that though we can’t prove it. And he was mixed up in the dope business. And again we can’t prove it. He was a very careful man, Morris.’

‘And he was behind this island business?’