Who Will Survive on Soldier Island?

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AND THEN THERE WERE NONE Agatha Christie's classic mystery novel And Then There Were None It begins, as so many dark stories do, with an invitation? said the narrator. A simple letter. A promise of good weather, pleasant company, and a week away from the troubles of the world. Ten people said yes. They should have said no. Soldier Island. That’s what the locals called it — a jagged tooth of rock jutting from the Devon coast, shaped, some said, like a crouching soldier. A wealthy eccentric had recently built a house upon it, and the island had become the talk of the county! said the narrator. But who owned it now. That, it seemed, depended on who you asked. Vera Claythorne, twenty-five years old, had answered an advertisement for a secretary-companion. The letter came from a Mrs. Una Owen, promising good pay and a seaside holiday on Soldier Island. Vera had worked as a games mistress since — well. Since the incident. She did not think about the incident? said the narrator. A fresh start. That’s all this is. Just a job. Nothing to feel guilty about, said Vera. Philip Lombard was not the type of man who answered advertisements. He had been approached — discreetly — by a Mr. Isaac Morris, who offered him a hundred guineas for a week’s work on an island. No details. Just show up, be useful, handle whatever needed handling, said the narrator. Lombard had handled many things in his career. Most of them were best not spoken of in polite company. General Macarthur had received his invitation with quiet pleasure. Old friends, the letter said. People from the old days. He was lonely, if he was honest with himself — though he never was. His wife had been dead many years. And there was the memory of a young officer named Arthur Richmond, sent to his death on the General’s orders, said the narrator… But that was war. These things happened in war. Justice Lawrence Wargrave — retired judge, known for his razor-sharp mind and his love of a guilty verdict — had been invited by an old friend named Constance Culmington, a rather scatty woman he’d known years ago. He found himself sharing a motorcar with Miss Emily Brent — sixty-five, upright as a church pew, and utterly certain that God agreed with all of her opinions, said the narrator. I received my invitation from a Mrs. Owen. We corresponded some years ago, I believe. A most respectable woman, said Emily Brent. Quite, said Judge Wargrave. Dr. Edward Armstrong had been grateful for the invitation. Grateful, and a little desperate. The good doctor had a problem — one that came in a bottle and had very nearly ruined him ten years ago. A rest, some sea air, and anonymity. Perfect, said the narrator. He did not wonder how the mysterious Mr. Owen knew his address. Thomas and Ethel Rogers had been engaged as domestic staff — butler and cook — by the same Mr. Isaac Morris who had recruited Lombard. The pay was exceptional. Mrs. Rogers had not slept well since the letter arrived. She told herself it was excitement, said the narrator. Anthony Marston drove the way he lived — too fast, too loud, and with no thought for consequences. Handsome in a brutish way. Rich. Utterly without conscience. He’d been invited by some friends of friends, he couldn’t quite remember. It didn’t matter. It was a party on an island. What could go wrong, said the narrator. And then there was Blore. Travelling under a false name — Davis, he called himself — and pretending to be a gentleman farmer from South Africa. He had been hired — again by the mysterious Mr. Morris — to observe the other guests and report back. Keep his eyes open? said the narrator. Blore had been a police detective. He knew how to watch people. He did not know that he was also being watched. By late afternoon, they had all arrived at Sticklehaven. Ten strangers. One boat. One island, said the narrator. None of them had ever met their host. The crossing was short but felt long. The island, up close, had a different character. Remote. Severe. The sort of place that did not welcome visitors, said the narrator. The house was impeccable. White walls, polished floors, every comfort provided. The Rogers couple — Thomas and Ethel — received them at the door, composed and professional. But there was one notable absence, said the narrator. Where are Mr. and Mrs. Owen, said Vera. Mr. and Mrs. Owen have been… delayed on the mainland, miss. They send their apologies and ask that you make yourselves quite at home. They hope to join the party shortly? said Thomas Rogers. In the centre of the dining table, someone had arranged a china ornament — a bowl containing ten small figures. Soldier figurines, curiously shaped, said the narrator. “Ten little Soldier boys went out to dine; One choked his little self and then there were nine. Nine little Soldier boys sat up very late; One overslept himself and then there were eight. Eight little Soldier boys travelling in Devon; One said he’d stay there and then there were seven. Seven little Soldier boys chopping up sticks; One chopped himself in halves and then there were six. Six little Soldier boys playing with a hive; A bumblebee stung one and then there were five. Five little Soldier boys going in for law; One got in Chancery and then there were four. Four little Soldier boys going out to sea; A red herring swallowed one and then there were three. Three little Soldier boys walking in the zoo; A big bear hugged one and then there were two. Two little Soldier boys sitting in the sun; One got frizzled up and then there was one. One little Soldier boy left all alone; He went and hanged himself and then there were none.”, said Vera. Cheerful little rhyme, said Lombard. Most inappropriate, I should say, said Emily Brent. Ladies and gentlemen — silence, please, said the Voice. You are charged with the following indictments: Edward George Armstrong — that you did, upon the 14th of March, 1925, cause the death of Louisa Mary Clees by operating upon her in a state of intoxication… Emily Caroline Brent — that upon the 5th of November, 1931, you were responsible for the death of Beatrice Taylor… William Henry Blore — that you did, on the 10th of October, 1928, deliberately give false evidence which resulted in the conviction of James Stephen Landor, who subsequently died in prison… Vera Elizabeth Claythorne — that you did, on the 11th of August, 1935, drown Cyril Ogilvie Hamilton… Philip Lombard — that you did, between the 14th and 26th of January, 1932, cause the deaths of twenty-one men, members of an East African tribe… John Gordon Macarthur — that you did, upon the 4th of January, 1917, send your wife’s lover, Arthur Richmond, to his death… Anthony James Marston — that upon the 14th of November, 1930, you did murder John and Lucy Combes… Thomas Rogers and Ethel Rogers — that you did, upon the 6th of May, 1929, cause the death of Jennifer Brady… Lawrence John Wargrave — that you did, upon the 10th of June, 1930, cause the death of Edward Seton… What the devil, said Marston. Monstrous. Absolutely monstrous! said General Macarthur. Rogers. Who gave you that record! said Judge Wargrave. It was Mr. Owen, sir. He left instructions — said it was a piece of music. I had no idea? said Rogers. And just who exactly is Mr. Owen, said Lombard. I… we have never met him in person, sir. All arrangements were made by letter. By a firm of solicitors, ultimately? said Rogers. So. None of us have met our host. None of us know who he is. And someone — using the name Owen — has brought us all here and publicly accused us of murder, said Judge Wargrave. I suggest we sit down, said Judge Wargrave. One by one, they spoke. Some denied everything. Some were dangerously quiet. And some, with the particular talent of the guilty, managed to sound almost entirely innocent, said the narrator. John and Lucy Combes — yes, I remember. Two kids on a road in Somerset. Tragic accident. I was going too fast — I admit that freely — but it was an accident. I paid a fine. That was that. Hardly murder, said Marston. The woman — Mrs. Clees — died on the operating table. That is all. Patients die on operating tables. It is an occupational tragedy, not a crime, said Dr. Armstrong. I had been — unwell — that evening. I should not have operated. That is something I have carried for years. But there was no malice. None whatsoever, said Dr. Armstrong. Beatrice Taylor was a girl in my employ. She came to me with child — unmarried. I dismissed her. Shortly thereafter, she threw herself into a river, said Emily Brent. I did what any God-fearing woman would have done. The girl brought her fate upon herself. Landor was a guilty man. The evidence was clear. I may have… sharpened the picture a little for the jury. But he was guilty, said Blore. And yet he died in prison, said Lombard. That’s not on me, said Blore. I was in East Africa. We were far from any settlement — myself and twenty-one local guides. There was a tribal uprising, food ran out. I took the supplies and I left. They died. I survived, said Lombard. Survival, I’m afraid, was the only moral framework available at the time. Richmond was a young officer under my command. He was having an affair with my wife. I sent him on a mission from which I knew he was unlikely to return. He did not return, said General Macarthur. War is a convenient thing, sometimes. Cyril Hamilton was a little boy in my care. He was a strong swimmer — over-confident. He swam out too far. I was his governess. I should have stopped him, said Vera. I didn’t reach him in time. Edward Seton was convicted of murder. I presided over his trial. He was found guilty by a jury of twelve citizens and hanged. I did my job. If anyone here believes that constitutes murder, I suggest they take the matter up with the British legal system, said Judge Wargrave. Now. I propose that we take stock of our situation like rational adults, said Judge Wargrave. Fact one: We have been brought here under false pretences by someone calling themselves U.N. Owen. Fact two: None of us has met this person. Fact three: The island is cut off — the boat returns tomorrow morning, and that, I suspect, is the soonest any of us can leave. Fact four: Each of us has been accused of causing someone’s death, said Judge Wargrave. The question is — to what end. Someone’s idea of entertainment? said Lombard. Someone’s idea of justice, I rather think? said Judge Wargrave. The first night on Soldier Island was not a restful one. Outside, the sea hurled itself against the rocks with something that felt, in the dark, almost like fury. Inside, ten minds circled the same unanswerable question: Why are we really here, said the narrator. Where is Mrs. Rogers this morning? said Vera. My wife is unwell, miss. I thought it best to let her rest? said Rogers. Ten little Soldier boys. There are ten of us, said Blore. Noted, said Lombard. One choked his little self, said Blore… Marston is dead, said Dr. Armstrong. We know, said Lombard. I examined him last night. There was cyanide in his glass. Potassium cyanide — enough to kill within moments, said Dr. Armstrong. Someone murdered him, said Vera. There are only nine, said Blore. We are marooned on this island. There is a murderer among us. And whoever they are — they have made their intentions very clear, said Judge Wargrave. Ten strangers. One was already dead. One figurine already gone, said the narrator. And the rhyme still had eight more verses to go. Doctor Armstrong — you’d better come up here. Now, said Blore. Mrs. Rogers is dead. She likely died in her sleep — the cause appears to be an overdose of a sedative. Her sleeping draught was tampered with, said Dr. Armstrong. I never — I didn’t — she was my wife, said Rogers. Rogers. The record last night accused you and your wife jointly of causing the death of Jennifer Brady. Your employer. Who left you a great deal of money in her will, said Judge Wargrave. She was old. She was going to die anyway! We just… we didn’t call the doctor in time. We didn’t— it wasn’t, said Rogers. Two deaths. Two figurines gone, said Judge Wargrave. One choked his little self. One overslept herself, said Lombard. Eight little Soldier boys travelling in Devon. So. Shall we talk about who’s next, said Lombard. The storm showed no sign of breaking. The boat would not come. And somewhere on this small island — in this beautiful, terrible house — a killer sat among the survivors, patient as stone, and waited? said the narrator. The judge thought. The governess walked. The soldier stood at the cliff’s edge and seemed, if anything, relieved. As though something he had long expected had finally arrived, said the narrator. General. You should come inside. It’s not safe out here, said Vera. Safe. Yes. You know, I’ve been thinking about Arthur Richmond all morning. He was a fine young man. I’ve never been entirely sure I was right about what I did, said General Macarthur. None of us are going to leave this island, Miss Claythorne. I think you know that, said General Macarthur. It’s almost a relief. Everything comes out in the end. That’s the truth of it, said General Macarthur. All right. Let’s be honest with each other, since honesty at this point can’t make things much worse. Whoever is doing this knows this island. Knows this house. Knows who we all are and what we’ve done, said Lombard. U.N. Owen. Owen. Un-Owen, said Vera. Unknown. U.N. Owen — Unknown. Our host doesn’t have a name. Our host was never planning to arrive. Our host is already here, said Vera. One of us is Owen, said Judge Wargrave. Ten people came to Soldier Island, said the narrator. Two were already dead. Eight remained — each of them guilty of something. Each of them afraid. And somewhere among them, hidden in plain sight, a mind that had decided that the law was not enough. That justice had to be taken by other means. The nursery rhyme had a logic to it. And whoever was writing it intended to finish what they’d started. Eight little Soldier boys travelling in Devon, said the narrator. What happens next.