And Then There Were None - Agatha Christie [48]
There was a wet dank smell in her nostrils….
On the windowpane the bee was buzzing—buzzing….
And then she felt the prick.
The bee sting on the side of her neck….
II
In the drawing room they were waiting for Emily Brent.
Vera Claythorne said:
“Shall I go and fetch her?”
Blore said quickly:
“Just a minute.”
Vera sat down again. Every one looked inquiringly at Blore. He said:
“Look here, everybody, my opinion’s this: we needn’t look farther for the author of these deaths than the dining room at this minute. I’d take my oath that woman’s the one we’re after!”
Armstrong said:
“And the motive?”
“Religious mania. What do you say, doctor?”
Armstrong said:
“It’s perfectly possible. I’ve nothing to say against it. But of course we’ve no proof.”
Vera said:
“She was very odd in the kitchen when we were getting breakfast. Her eyes—” She shivered.
Lombard said:
“You can’t judge her by that. We’re all a bit off our heads by now!”
Blore said:
“There’s another thing. She’s the only one who wouldn’t give an explanation after that gramophone record. Why? Because she hadn’t any to give.”
Vera stirred in her chair. She said:
“That’s not quite true. She told me—afterwards.”
Wargrave said:
“What did she tell you, Miss Claythorne?”
Vera repeated the story of Beatrice Taylor.
Mr. Justice Wargrave observed:
“A perfectly straightforward story. I personally should have no difficulty in accepting it. Tell me, Miss Claythorne, did she appear to be troubled by a sense of guilt or a feeling of remorse for her attitude in the matter?”
“None whatever,” said Vera. “She was completely unmoved.”
Blore said:
“Hearts as hard as flints, these righteous spinsters! Envy, mostly!”
Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
“It is now five minutes to eleven. I think we should summon Miss Brent to join our conclave.”
Blore said:
“Aren’t you going to take any action?”
The judge said:
“I fail to see what action we can take. Our suspicions are, at the moment, only suspicions. I will, however, ask Dr. Armstrong to observe Miss Brent’s demeanour very carefully. Let us now go into the dining room.”
They found Emily Brent sitting in the chair in which they had left her. From behind they saw nothing amiss, except that she did not seem to hear their entrance into the room.
And then they saw her face—suffused with blood, with blue lips and starting eyes.
Blore said:
“My God, she’s dead!”
III
The small quiet voice of Mr. Justice Wargrave said:
“One more of us acquitted—too late!”
Armstrong was bent over the dead woman. He sniffed the lips, shook his head, peered into the eyelids.
Lombard said impatiently:
“How did she die, doctor? She was all right when we left her here!”
Armstrong’s attention was riveted on a mark on the right side of the neck.
He said:
“That’s the mark of a hypodermic syringe.”
There was a buzzing sound from the window. Vera cried:
“Look—a bee—a bumble bee. Remember what I said this morning!”
Armstrong said grimly:
“It wasn’t that bee that stung her! A human hand held the syringe.”
The judge asked:
“What poison was injected?”
Armstrong answered:
“At a guess, one of the cyanides. Probably potassium cyanide, same as Anthony Marston. She must have died almost immediately by asphyxiation.”
Vera cried:
“But that bee? It can’t be coincidence?”
Lombard said grimly:
“Oh no, it isn’t coincidence! It’s our murderer’s touch of local colour! He’s a playful beast. Likes to stick to his damnable nursery jingle as closely as possible!”
For the first time his voice was uneven, almost shrill. It was as though even his nerves, seasoned by a long career of hazards and dangerous undertakings, had given out at last.
He said violently:
“It’s mad!—absolutely mad—we’re all mad!”
The judge said calmly:
“We have still, I hope, our reasoning powers. Did any one bring a hypodermic syringe to this house?”
Dr. Armstrong, straightening himself, said in a voice that was not too well assured:
“Yes, I did.”
Four pairs of eyes fastened on him. He braced himself against the deep hostile suspicion of those eyes. He said: