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 seafaring 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, CMG, DSO, 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 up on it. Hope I look all right.’
He stood up and scrutinised himself anxiously in the glass. The face reflected there was of 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.
Soldier Island. He remembered Soldier 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.
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…
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 Soldier 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 her mind, spoke at once.
‘I’ll wait,’ she said, ‘if you will go on?’ She looked at the other three, her glance and voice had that slight suggestion of command in it that comes from having occupied a position of authority. She might have been directing which tennis sets the girls were to play in.
Miss Brent said stiffly, ‘Thank you,’ bent her head and entered one of the taxis, the door of which the driver was holding open.
Mr Justice Wargrave followed her.
Captain Lombard said:
‘I’ll wait with Miss—’
‘Claythorne,’ said Vera.
‘My name is Lombard, Philip Lombard.’
The porters were piling luggage on the taxi. Inside, Mr Justice Wargrave said with due legal caution:
‘Beautiful weather we are having.’
Miss Brent said:
‘Yes, indeed.’
A very distinguished old gentleman, she thought to herself. Quite unlike the usual type of man in seaside guest houses. Evidently Mrs or Miss Oliver had good connections…
Mr Justice Wargrave inquired:
‘Do you know this part of the world well?’
‘I have been to Cornwall and to Torquay, but this is my first visit to this part of Devon.’
The judge said:
‘I also am unacquainted with this part of the world.’ The taxi drove off.
The driver of the second taxi said:
‘Like to sit inside while you’re waiting?’
Vera said decisively:
‘Not at all.’
Captain Lombard smiled. He said:
‘That sunny wall looks more attractive. Unless you’d rather go inside the station?’
‘No, indeed. It’s so delightful to get out of that stuffy train.’
He answered:
‘Yes, travelling by train is rather trying in this weather.’
Vera said conventionally:
‘I do hope it lasts—the weather, I mean. Our English summers are so treacherous.’
With a slight lack of originality Lombard asked:
‘Do you know this part of the world