he had a good manner – he could inspire hope and belief.
Luck that he’d managed to pull himself together in time after that business ten – no, fifteen years ago. It had been a near thing, that![13] He’d been going to pieces. The shock had pulled him together. He’d cut out drink altogether. By Jove, it had been a near thing, though…
With a devastating ear–splitting blast on the horn an enormous Super–Sports Dalmain car rushed past him at eighty miles an hour. Dr. Armstrong nearly went into the hedge. One of these young fools who tore round the country. He hated them. That had been a near shave, too.[14] Damned young fool!
VII
Tony Marston, roaring down into Mere, thought to himself: “The amount of cars crawling about the roads is frightful. Always something blocking your way. And they will drive in the middle of the road! Pretty hopeless driving in England, anyway … not like France where you really could let out[15]…”
Should he stop here for a drink, or push on? Heaps of time! Only another hundred miles and a bit to go. He’d have a gin and gingerbeer. Fizzing hot day!
This island place ought to be rather good fun – if the weather lasted. Who were these Owens, he wondered? Rich and stinking probably. Badger was rather good at nosing people like that out. Of course, he had to, poor old chap, with no money of his own…
Hope they’d do one well in drinks. Never knew with these fellows who’d made their money and weren’t born to it. Pity that story about Gabrielle Turi having bought Nigger Island wasn’t true. He’d like to have been in with that film star crowd.
Oh, well, he supposed there’d be a few girls there…
Coming out of the hotel, he stretched himself, yawned, looked up at the blue sky and climbed into the Dalmain.
Several young women looked at him admiringly – his six feet of well–proportioned body, his crisp hair, tanned face, and intensely blue eyes.
He let in the clutch with a roar and leapt up the narrow street. Old men and errand boys jumped for safety. The latter looked after the car admiringly.
Anthony Marston proceeded on his triumphal progress.
VIII
Mr. Blore was in the slow train from Plymouth. There was only one other person in his carriage, an elderly sea – faring gentleman with a bleary eye. At the present moment he had dropped off to sleep.
Mr. Blore was writing carefully in a little notebook.
“That’s the lot,” he muttered to himself. “Emily Brent, Vera Claythorne, Dr. Armstrong, Anthony Marston, old Justice Wargrave, Philip Lombard, General Macarthur, C. M. G., D. S. O. Manservant and wife: Mr. and Mrs. Rogers.”
He closed the notebook and put it back in his pocket. He glanced over at the corner and the slumbering man.
“Had one over the eight,” diagnosed Mr. Blore accurately.
He went over things carefully and conscientiously in his mind.
“Job ought to be easy enough,” he ruminated. “Don’t see how I can slip on it. Hope I look all right.”
He stood up and scrutinised himself anxiously in the glass. The face reflected there was a slightly military cast with a moustache. There was very little expression in it. The eyes were grey and set rather close together.
“Might be a major,” said Mr. Blore. “No, I forgot. There’s that old military gent. He’d spot me at once.”
“South Africa,” said Mr. Blore, “that’s my line! None of these people have anything to do with South Africa, and I’ve just been reading that travel folder so I can talk about it all right.”
Fortunately there were all sorts and types of Colonials. As a man of means from South Africa, Mr. Blore felt that he could enter into any Society unchallenged.
Nigger Island. He remembered Nigger Island as a boy… Smelly sort of rock covered with gulls – stood about a mile from the coast. It had got its name from its resemblance to a man’s head – a man with negroid lips.
Funny idea to go and build a house on it! Awful in bad weather! But millionaires were full of whims!
The old man in the corner woke up and said:
“You can’t never tell at sea – never!”
Mr. Blore said soothingly: “That’s right. You can’t.”
The old man hiccupped twice and said plaintively:
“There’s a squall coming.”
Mr. Blore said:
“No, no, mate, it’s a lovely day.”
The old man said angrily:
“There’s a squall ahead. I can smell it.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Mr. Blore pacifically.
The train stopped at a station and the old fellow rose unsteadily.
“Thish where I get out.” He fumbled with the window. Mr. Blore helped him.
The old man stood in the doorway. He raised a solemn hand and blinked his bleary eyes.
“Watch and pray,” he said. “Watch and pray. The day of judgment is at hand.”
He collapsed through the doorway on to the platform.
From a recumbent position he looked up at Mr. Blore and said with immense dignity:
“I’m talking to you, young man. The day of judgment is very close at hand.”
Subsiding on to his seat Mr. Blore thought to himself: “He’s nearer the day of judgment than I am!”
But there, as it happens, he was wrong…
Chapter Two
I
Outside Oakbridge station a little group of people stood in momentary uncertainty. Behind them stood porters with suitcases. One of these called, “Jim!”
The driver of one of the taxis stepped forward.
“You’m for Nigger Island, maybe?” he asked in a soft Devon voice. Four voices gave assent – and then immediately afterwards gave quick surreptitious glances at each other.
The driver said, addressing his remarks to Mr. Justice Wargrave as the senior member of the party:
“There are two taxis here, sir. One of them must wait till the slow train from Exeter gets in – a matter of five minutes – there’s one gentleman coming by that. Perhaps one of you wouldn’t mind waiting? You’d be more comfortable that way.”
Vera Claythorne, her own secretarial position clear in
