Ten Little Niggers / Десять негритят. Агата Кристи

no doubt the house is closed up in winter,” she said. “No servants would stay here.”

      Vera murmured:

      “It must be difficult to get servants anyway.”

      Emily Brent said:

      “Mrs. Oliver has been lucky to get these two. The woman’s a good cook.”

      Vera thought:

      “Funny how elderly people always get names wrong.”

      She said:

      “Yes, I think Mrs. Owen has been very lucky indeed.”

      Emily Brent took a small piece of embroidery out of her bag and paused.

      She said sharply:

      “I’ve never met anyone called Owen in my life.”

      At that moment the door opened and the men joined them. Rogers followed them into the room with the coffee tray.

      The judge came and sat down by Emily Brent. Armstrong came up to Vera. Tony Marston went to the open window. Blore studied a statuette of a female figure. General Macarthur stood with his back to the mantelpiece. Lombard turned over the pages of Punch that lay with other papers on a table by the wall.

      Rogers went round with the coffee tray. The coffee was good – really black and very hot.

      The whole party had dined well. They were satisfied with themselves and with life. The hands of the clock pointed to twenty minutes past nine. There was a pleasant satisfied silence.

      Into that silence, without warning, came The Voice…

      “Ladies and gentlemen! Silence, please!”

      They looked round – at each other, at the walls. Who was speaking?

      The Voice went on – a high clear voice.

      You are charged with the following indictments:

      Edward George Armstrong, that upon the 14th day of March, 1925 you caused the death of Louisa Mary Clees.

      Emily Caroline Brent, that upon the 5th November, 1931, you were responsible for the death of Beatrice Taylor.

      William Henry Blore, that on October 10th, 1928, you caused the death of James Stephen Landor.

      Vera Elizabeth Claythorne, that on the 11th day of August, 1935, you killed Cyril Ogilvie Hamilton.

      Philip Lombard, that in February, 1932, you were guilty of the death of twenty-one men, members of an East African tribe.

      John Gordon Macarthur, that on the 4th of January, 1917, you deliberately sent your wife’s lover, Arthur Richmond, to his death.

      Anthony James Marston, that last year, upon the 14 th of November, you were guilty of the murder of John and Lucy Combes.

      Thomas Rogers and Ethel Rogers, that on the 6th of May,

      1929, you caused the death of Jennifer Brady.

      Lawrence John Wargrave, that upon the 10th day of June,

      1930, you were guilty of the murder of Edward Seton.

      Defendants, have you anything to say in your defence?

      II

      The shocked silence was broken by a loud crash: Rogers had dropped the coffee tray!

      And there came a scream and the sound of a falling body from outside the room. Lombard sprang to the door and quickly opened it. Outside, Mrs. Rogers was lying on the floor.

      Lombard called Marston and between them they lifted up the woman and carried her into the drawing-room.

      Dr. Armstrong helped them to lift her onto the sofa and bent over her. He said quickly:

      “It’s nothing. She’s fainted, that’s all. She’ll come round in a minute.”

      Lombard told Rogers to bring some brandy. Rogers slipped quickly out of the room. His face was white, his hands were shaking.

      Vera cried out:

      “Who was that speaking? Where was he?”

      General Macarthur looked suddenly ten years older.

      “What’s going on here? What kind of a practical joke was that?”

      Blore was wiping his face with a handkerchief.

      Only Mr. Justice Wargrave and Miss Brent seemed comparatively unemotional. Emily Brent, sitting very erect, held her head high. There were spots of dark colour in both her cheeks. The judge sat in his usual hunched-up pose. Only his eyes were active, moving round and round the room, puzzled, watching with lively intelligence.

      Again Lombard took the initiative.

      He said:

      “That voice? It sounded as though it were in the room.”

      Vera cried again:

      “Who was it? It wasn’t one of us!”

      Lombard looked slowly round the room. Suddenly his eyes stopped on the door near the fireplace. That door led into an adjacent room.

      He entered that room and, at once, his satisfied exclamation was heard: “Ah, here we are.”

      The others followed him. Only Miss Brent remained alone sitting erect in her chair.

      Inside the adjacent room a table stood close to the wall of the drawing-room. On the table was an old-fashioned gramophone with a large trumpet. The mouth of the trumpet was against the wall. Lombard pushed the trumpet aside and they saw some small holes in the wall.

      Lombard replaced the needle on the record and at once they heard again: “You are charged with the following indictments —”

      Vera cried:

      “Turn it off! Turn it off! It’s horrible!”

      Lombard obeyed.

      Dr. Armstrong said, with a sigh of relief:

      “An outrageous and heartless practical joke, I suppose.”

      Mr. Justice Wargrave murmured:

      “So you think it’s a joke, do you?”

      The doctor stared at him.

      “What else could it be?”

      The judge gently stroked his upper lip and said he wasn’tyet prepared to give an opinion.

      Anthony Marston said:

      “Look here, you’ve forgotten one thing: who the devil turned the gramophone on?”

      Wargrave murmured:

      “Yes, I think we must investigate that.”

      He led the way back into the drawing-room. The others followed.

      Rogers had just returned with a glass of brandy. Miss Brent was bending over Mrs. Rogers.

      Rogers slipped between the two women.

      “Allow me, Madam, I’ll speak to her. Ethel, it’s all right.

      All right, do you hear? Pull yourself together.”

      Mrs. Rogers’ frightened eyes went round and round the ring of faces. Rogers repeated:

      “Pull yourself together, Ethel.”

      Dr. Armstrong spoke to her gently.

      “You’ll be all right now, Mrs. Rogers.”

      She said:

      “Did I faint, sir?”

      “Yes.”

      “It was The Voice – that awful voice – like a judgement —”

      Her face turned green again.

      Dr. Armstrong said sharply:

      “Where’s that brandy?”

      Rogers had put it down on a little table. Someone handed it to the doctor and offered it to Mrs. Rogers.

      She drank it, choking