And Then There Were None - Agatha Christie [42]
Mr. Justice Wargrave was thinking:
“Murdered in our beds! These doctors are all the same—they think in clichés. A thoroughly commonplace mind.”
The doctor said:
“There have been three victims already, remember.”
“Certainly. But you must remember that they were unprepared for the attack. We are forewarned.”
Dr. Armstrong said bitterly:
“What can we do? Sooner or later—”
“I think,” said Mr. Justice Wargrave, “that there are several things we can do.”
Armstrong said:
“We’ve no idea, even, who it can be—”
The judge stroked his chin and murmured:
“Oh, you know, I wouldn’t quite say that.”
Armstrong stared at him.
“Do you mean you know?”
Mr. Justice Wargrave said cautiously:
“As regards actual evidence, such as is necessary in court, I admit that I have none. But it appears to me, reviewing the whole business, that one particular person is sufficiently clearly indicated. Yes, I think so.”
Armstrong stared at him.
He said:
“I don’t understand.”
IV
Miss Brent was upstairs in her bedroom.
She took up her Bible and went to sit by the window.
She opened it. Then, after a minute’s hesitation, she set it aside and went over to the dressing table. From a drawer in it she took out a small black-covered notebook.
She opened it and began writing.
“A terrible thing has happened. General Macarthur is dead. (His cousin married Elsie MacPherson.) There is no doubt but that he was murdered. After luncheon the judge made us a most interesting speech. He is convinced that the murderer is one of us. That means that one of us is possessed by a devil. I had already suspected that. Which of us is it? They are all asking themselves that. I alone know….”
She sat for some time without moving. Her eyes grew vague and filmy. The pencil straggled drunkenly in her fingers. In shaking loose capitals she wrote:
THE MURDERER’S NAME IS BEATRICE TAYLOR….
Her eyes closed.
Suddenly, with a start, she awoke. She looked down at the notebook. With an angry exclamation she scored through the vague unevenly scrawled characters of the last sentence.
She said in a low voice:
“Did I write that? Did I? I must be going mad….”
V
The storm increased. The wind howled against the side of the house.
Everyone was in the living room. They sat listlessly huddled together. And, surreptitiously, they watched each other.
When Rogers brought in the tea tray, they all jumped. He said:
“Shall I draw the curtains? It would make it more cheerful like.”
Receiving an assent to this, the curtains were drawn and the lamps turned on. The room grew more cheerful. A little of the shadow lifted. Surely, by tomorrow, the storm would be over and someone would come—a boat would arrive….
Vera Claythorne said:
“Will you pour out tea, Miss Brent?”
The elder woman replied:
“No, you do it, dear. That teapot is so heavy. And I have lost two skeins of my grey knitting wool. So annoying.”
Vera moved to the tea table. There was a cheerful rattle and clink of china. Normality returned.
Tea! Bless ordinary everyday afternoon tea! Philip Lombard made a cheery remark. Blore responded. Dr. Armstrong told a humorous story. Mr. Justice Wargrave, who ordinarily hated tea, sipped approvingly.
Into this relaxed atmosphere came Rogers.
And Rogers was upset. He said nervously and at random:
“Excuse me, sir, but does any one know what’s become of the bathroom curtain?”
Lombard’s head went up with a jerk.
“The bathroom curtain? What the devil do you mean, Rogers?”
“It’s gone, sir, clean vanished. I was going round drawing all the curtains and the one in the lav—bathroom wasn’t there any longer.”
Mr. Justice Wargrave asked:
“Was it there this morning?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
Blore said:
“What kind of a curtain was it?”
“Scarlet oilsilk, sir. It went with the scarlet tiles.”
Lombard said:
“And it’s gone?”
“Gone, sir.”
They stared at each other.
Blore said heavily:
“Well—after all—what of it? It’s mad—but so’s everything else. Anyway it doesn’t matter. You can’t kill anybody with an oilsilk curtain. Forget about it.”
Rogers said:
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”
He went out