Fear - what a strange thing fear was...
Well, it was over now. She had conquered - had triumphed over the most deadly peril. By her own quick-wittedness and adroitness she had turned the tables on her would-be destroyer.
She began to walk up towards the house.
The sun was setting, the sky to the west was streaked with red and orange. It was beautiful and peaceful...
Vera thought:
"The whole thing might be a dream..."
How tired she was - terribly tired. Her limbs ached, her eyelids were drooping. Not to be afraid any more... To sleep. Sleep... sleep... sleep...
To sleep safely since she was alone on the island. One little Indian boy left all alone.
She smiled to herself.
She went in at the front door. The house, too, felt strangely peaceful.
Vera thought:
"Ordinarily one wouldn't care to sleep where there's a dead body in practically every bedroom!"
Should she go the kitchen and get herself something to eat?
She hesitated a moment, then decided against it. She was really too tired...
She paused by the dining-room door. There were still three little china figures in the middle of the table.
Vera laughed.
She said:
"You're behind the times, my dears."
She picked up two of them and tossed them out through the window. She heard them crash on the stone of the terrace.
The third little figure she picked up and held in her hand. She said:
"You can come with me. We've won, my dear! We've won!"
The hall was dim in the dying light.
Vera, the little Indian clasped in her hand, began to mount the stairs. Slowly, because her legs were suddenly very tired.
"One little Indian boy left all alone." How did it end? Oh, yes! "He got married and then there were none."
Married... Funny, how she suddenly got the feeling again that Hugo was in the house...
Very strong. Yes, Hugo was upstairs waiting for her.
Vera said to herself:
"Don't be a fool. You're so tired that you're imagining the most fantastic things..."
Slowly up the stairs...
At the top of them something fell from her hand, making hardly any noise on the soft pile carpet. She did not notice that she had dropped the revolver. She was only conscious of clasping a little china figure.
How very quiet the house was. And yet - it didn't seem like an empty house...
Hugo, upstairs, waiting for her...
"One little Indian boy left all alone... What was the last line again? Something about being married - or was it something else?
She had come now to the door of her room. Hugo was waiting for her inside - she was quite sure of it.
She opened the door...
She gave a gasp...
What was that - hanging from the hook in the ceiling? A rope with a noose all ready? And a chair to stand upon - a chair that could be kicked away...
That was what Hugo wanted...
And of course that was the last line of the rhyme.
"He went and hanged himself and then there were none...
The little china figure fell from her hand. It rolled unheeded and broke against the fender.
Like an automaton Vera moved forward. This was the end - here where the cold wet hand (Cyril's hand, of course) had touched her throat...
"You can go to the rock, Cyril..."
That was what murder was - as easy as that!
But afterwards you went on remembering...
She climbed up on the chair, her eyes staring in front of her like a sleepwalker's... She adjusted the noose round her neck.
Hugo was there to see she did what she had to do.
She kicked away the chair...
Epilogue
Sir Thomas Legge, Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard, said irritably:
"But the whole thing's incredible!"
Inspector Maine said respectfully:
"I know, sir."
The A.C. went on:
"Ten people dead on an island and not a living soul on it. It doesn't make sense!"
Inspector Maine said stolidly:
"Nevertheless, it happened, sir."
Sir Thomas Legge said:
"Damn it all, Maine, somebody must have killed 'em."
"That's just our problem, sir."
"Nothing helpful in the doctor's report?"
"No, sir. Wargrave and Lombard were shot, the first through the head, the second through the heart. Miss Brent and Marston died of cyanide poisoning, Mrs. Rogers died of an overdose of chloral. Rogers' head was split open. Blore's head was crushed in. Armstrong died of drowning. Macarthur's skull was fractured by a blow on the back of the head and Vera Claythorne was hanged."
The A.C. winced. He said:
"Nasty business - all of it."
He considered for a minute or two. He said irritably:
"Do you mean to say that you haven't been able to get anything helpful out of the Sticklehaven people. Dash it, they must know something."
Inspector Maine shrugged his shoulders.
"They're ordinary decent seafaring folk. They know that the island was bought by a man called Owen - and that's about all they do know."
"Who provisioned the island and made all the necessary arrangements?"
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