Agatha Christie - And Then There Were None - Chapter 14

Please join me while I read Chapter 14 of "And Then There Were None" by Agatha Christie. This is a 28.5-minute story, accompanied by an additional 5 minutes of ambient music. This story is read to help you relax and is read in a calm tone.

The story: “And Then There Were None” is a classic mystery novel by Agatha Christie that explores guilt, justice, and the human psyche. Ten strangers are lured to a remote island under pretenses, only to discover they are being accused of crimes from their past. One by one, they begin to die by a chilling nursery rhyme, as the survivors try to unmask the killer among them. Taut, psychological, and suspenseful, this novel is a masterful study in tension and moral reckoning.

Transcript

Welcome to Restful Journeys. In this track I will continue reading And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie. This will be chapter 14. Please find a comfortable place to sit or lie down and relax. Take a few moments to clear your mind and allow yourself to listen to these words and help you become calm. Let's continue with chapter 14. 1. They had carried Mr. Justice Wargrave up to his room and laid him on the bed. Then they had come down again and stood in the hall looking at each other. Lore said heavily, What do we do now? Lombard said briskly, Have something to eat, We've got to eat you know. Once again they went into the kitchen. Again they opened the tin of tongue. They ate mechanically, Almost without tasting. Vera said, I shall never eat tongue again. They finished the meal. They sat round the kitchen table staring at each other. Lore said, Only four of us now, Who will be next? Armstrong stared. He said almost mechanically, We must be very careful. And stop. Lore nodded, That's what he said and now he's dead. Armstrong said, How did it happen I wonder? Lombard swore. He said, A damed clever double cross. That stuff was planted in Miss Claythorne's room and it worked just as it was intended to. Everyone dashes up there thinking she's being murdered. And so, In the confusion, Someone caught the old boy off his guard. Lore said, Why didn't anyone hear the shot? Lombard shook his head. Miss Claythorne was screaming, The wind was howling, We were running about and calling out. No, It wouldn't be heard. He paused, But that trick's not going to work again. He'll have to try something else next. Lore said, He probably will. There was an unpleasant tone in his voice. The two men eyed each other. Armstrong said, Four of us, And we don't know which. Lore said, I know. Vera said, I haven't the least doubt. Armstrong said slowly, I suppose I do know, Really. Philip Lombard said, I think I've got a pretty good idea now. Again, They all looked at each other. Vera staggered to her feet. She said, I feel awful, I must go to bed, I'm dead beat. Lombard said, Might as well, No good sitting watching each other. Lore said, I've no objections. The doctor murmured, The best thing to do, Although I doubt if any of us will sleep. They moved to the door. Lore said, I wonder where that revolver is now. Two. They went up the stairs. The next move was a little like a scene in a farce. Each one of the four stood on his or her bedroom door handle. Then, As though at a signal, Each one stepped into the room and pulled the door shut. There were sounds of bolts and locks, Of the moving of furniture. Four frightened people were barricaded in until morning. Three. Philip Lombard drew a breath of relief as he turned from adjusting a chair under the door handle. He strolled across to the dressing table. By the light of the flickering candle, He studied his face curiously. He said softly to himself, Yes, This business has got you rattled all right. His sudden wolf-like smile flashed out. He undressed quickly. He went over to his bed, Placing his wrist watch on the table by the bed. Then he opened the drawer of the table. He stood there, Staring down at the revolver that was inside it. Four. Vera Claythorne lay in bed, The candle still burned beside her, And yet she could not summon the courage to put it out. She was afraid of the dark. She told herself again and again, You're all right until morning. Nothing happened last night. Nothing will happen tonight. Nothing can happen. You're locked and bolted in. No one can come near you. And she thought suddenly, Of course. I can stay here. Stay here locked in. Food doesn't really matter. I can stay here, Safely, Till help comes, Even if it's a day or two days. Stay here, Yes. But could she stay here, Hour after hour, With no one to speak to, With nothing to do but think? She'd begin to think of Cornwall, Of Hugo, Of, Of what she'd said to Cyril, Horrid whiny little boy, Always pestering her, Miss Claythorne, Why can't I swim out to the rock? I can. I know I can. Was it her voice that answered, Of course you can, Cyril, Really, I know that. Can I go then, Miss Claythorne? Well, You see, Cyril, Your mother gets so nervous about you. I'll tell you what, Tomorrow you can swim out to the rock. I'll talk to your mother on the beach and distract her attention. And then, When she looks for you, There you'll be, Standing on the rock, Waving to her. It will be a surprise. Oh, Good egg, Miss Claythorne. That will be a lark. She'd said it now, Tomorrow, Hugo was going to Newquay. When he came back, It would all be over. Yes, But supposing it wasn't, Supposing it went wrong, Cyril might be rescued in time. And then, Then he'd say, Miss Claythorne said I could. Well, What of it? One must take some risk. If the worst happened, She'd brazen it out. How can you tell such a wicked lie, Cyril? Of course, I never said any such thing. They'd believe her, All right. Cyril often told stories. He was an awful child. Cyril would know, Of course, But that didn't matter. And anyway, Nothing would go wrong. She'd pretend to swim out after him, But she'd arrived too late. Nobody would ever suspect. Had Hugo suspected? Was that why he had looked at her in that queer-off way? Had Hugo known? Was that why he'd gone off after the inquest so hurriedly? He hadn't answered the one letter she had written him, Hugo. Vera turned restlessly in bed. No, No, She mustn't think of Hugo. It hurt too much. That was all over, Over and done with. Hugo must be forgotten. Why, This evening, Had she suddenly felt that Hugo was in the room with her? She stared up at the ceiling, Staring at the big black hook in the middle of the room. She'd never noticed that hook before. The seaweed had hung from that. She shivered as she remembered the cold, Clammy touch on her neck. She didn't like the hook on the ceiling. It drew your eyes, Fascinated you. A big black hook. 5. Ex-Inspector Bloor sat on the side of his bed. His small eyes, Red-rimmed and bloodshot, Were alert in the solid mass of his face. He was like a wild boar waiting to charge. He felt no inclination to sleep. The menace was coming very near now. 6 out of 10. For all his sagacity, For all his caution and astuteness, The old judge had gone the way of the rest. Bloor snorted with a kind of savage satisfaction. What was it the old geezer had said? We must be very careful. Self-righteous smuggled hypocrite, Sitting up in the court feeling like God Almighty. He'd got his all right, No more being careful for him. And now there were four of them. The girl, Lombard, Armstrong, And himself. Very soon another of them would go. But it wouldn't be William Henry Bloor. He'd see to that all right. But the revolver? What about the revolver? That was the disturbing factor. The revolver. Bloor sat on his bed, His brow furrowed. His little eyes ceased and puckered while he pondered the problem of the revolver. In the silence, He could hear the clocks strike downstairs. Midnight. He relaxed a little now, Even went so far as to lie down on his bed. But he did not undress. He lay there, Thinking, Going over the whole business from the beginning, Methodically, Painstakingly, As he had been wont to do in his police officer days. It was thoroughness that paid in the end. The candle was burning down. Looking to see if the matches were within easy reach of his hand, He blew it out. Strangely enough, He found the darkness disquieting. It was as though a thousand aged fears woke and struggled for supremacy in his brain. Faces floated in the air. The judge's face, Crowned with that mockery of grey wool. The cold dead face of Mrs. Rogers. The convulsed purple face of Anthony Marston. Another face. Pale, Spectacled, With a straw-colored mustache. A face that he had seen sometime or other, But when? Not on the island. No, Much longer ago than that. Funny that he wouldn't put a name to it. Silly sort of face, Really. Fellow looked a bit of a mug. Of course, It came to him with real shock. Landor. Odd to think he'd completely forgotten what Landor looked like. Only yesterday he'd been trying to recall the fellow's face and hadn't been able to. And now, Here it was. Every feature, Clear and distinct, As though he'd seen it only yesterday. Landor had had a wife. A thin slip of a woman with a worried face. There'd been a kid, Too. A girl, About fourteen. For the first time, He wondered what had become of them. The revolver. What had become of the revolver? That was much more important. The more he thought about it, The more puzzled he was. He didn't understand this revolver business. Somebody in the house had got to that revolver. Downstairs, A clock struck one. Bloor's thoughts were cut short. He sat up in bed, Suddenly alert. For he had heard a sound. A very faint sound. Somewhere outside his bedroom door. There was someone moving about in the darkened house. The perspiration broke out on his forehead. Who was it? Moving secretly and silently along the corridors. Someone who was up to no good. He bet that. Noiselessly, In spite of his heavy build, He dropped off the bed. And with two strides, And was standing by the door, Listening. But the sound did not come again. Nevertheless, Bloor was convinced that he was not mistaken. He had heard a football, Just outside his door. The hair rose slightly on his scalp. He knew fear again. Someone creeping about stealthily in the night. He listened, But the sound was not repeated. And now a new temptation assailed him. He wanted, Desperately, To go out and investigate. If he could only see who it was prowling about in the darkness. But to open his door would be the action of a fool. Very likely that was exactly what the other was waiting for. He might even have meant Bloor to hear what he had heard, Counting on him coming out to investigate. Bloor stood rigid, Listening. He could hear sounds everywhere now. Cracks, Rustles, Mysterious whispers. But his dogged, Realistic brain knew them for what they were. The creations of his own heated imagination. And then suddenly he heard something that was not imagination. Footsteps. Very soft, Very cautious, But plainly audible to a man listening with all ears, As Bloor was listening. They came softly along the corridor. Both Lombard's and Armstrong's rooms were farther from the stairhead than his. They passed his door without hesitating or faltering. And as they did so, Bloor made up his mind. He meant to see who it was. The footsteps had definitely passed his door, Going to the stairs. Where was the man going? When Bloor acted, He acted quickly. Surprisingly so for a man who looked so heavy and slow. He tiptoed back to the bed, Slipped matches back into his pocket, Detached the plug of electric lamp by his bed and picked it up, Winding the flex round it. It was a chromium affair, With a heavy ebonite base. A useful weapon. He sprinted noiselessly across the room, Removed the chair from under the door handle, And with precaution, Unlocked and unbolted the door. He stepped out into the corridor. There was a faint sound in the hall below. Bloor ran noiselessly in his stockened feet to the head of the stairs. At that moment, He realized why it was he had heard all those sounds so clearly. The wind had died down completely, And the sky must have cleared. There was faint moonlight coming in through the landing window, And it illuminated the hall below. Bloor had an instantaneous glimpse of a figure just passing out through the front door. In the act of running down the stairs in pursuit, He paused. Once again, He had nearly made a fool of himself. This was a trap. Perhaps to lure him outside the house. But what the other man didn't realize was that he had made a mistake, And delivered himself neatly into Bloor's hands. For of the three tenanted rooms upstairs, One must now be empty. All that had been done was to ascertain which. Bloor went swiftly back along the corridor. He paused first at Dr. Armstrong's door and tapped. There was no answer. He waited a minute, Then went on to Philip Lombard's room. Here the answer came at once. Who's there? It's Bloor. I don't think Armstrong is in his room. Wait a minute. He went on to the door at the end of the corridor. Here he tapped again. Miss Claythorne? Miss Claythorne? Bear's voice startled. Answered him. Who is it? What's the matter? It's all right, Miss Claythorne. Wait a minute. I'll come back. He raced back to Lombard's room. The door opened as he did so. Lombard stood there. He held a candle in his left hand. He had pulled on his trousers over his pajamas. His right hand rested in his pocket of his pajama jacket. He said sharply. What the hell is this? Bloor explained rapidly. Lombard's eyes lit up. Armstrong, Eh? So he's our pigeon. He moved along to Armstrong's door. Sorry, Bloor, But I don't take anything on trust. He rapped sharply on the panel. Armstrong? Armstrong? There was no answer. Lombard dropped to his knees and peered through the keyhole. He inserted his little finger gingerly into the lock. He said. Key's not in the door on the inside. Bloor said. That means he locked it on the outside and took it with him. Philip nodded. Extraordinary precaution to take. We'll get him, Bloor. This time, We'll get him. Half a second. He raced along to Vera's room. Vera? Yes? We're hunting for Armstrong. He's out of his room. Whatever you do, Don't open your door. Understand? Yes, I understand. If Armstrong comes along and says that I've been killed or Bloor's been killed, Pay no attention. See? Only open your door if both Bloor and I speak to you. Got that? Vera said. Yes, I'm not a complete fool. Lombard said. Good. He joined Bloor. He said. And now, After him. The hunt's up. Bloor said. We'd better be careful. He's got a revolver, Remember? Philip Lombard, Racing down the stairs, Chuckled. He said. That's where you're wrong. He undid the front door, Remarking. Let's push back so he could get in again easily. He went on. I've got that revolver. He took it half out of his pocket and spoke. Found it put back in my drawer tonight. Bloor stopped dead on the doorstep. His face changed. Philip Lombard saw it. Don't be a damned fool, Bloor. I'm not going to shoot you. Go back and barricade yourself in if you like. I'm going after Armstrong. He started off into the moonlight. Bloor, After a minute's hesitation, Followed him. He thought to himself. I suppose I'm asking for it. After all, He had tackled criminals armed with revolvers before now. Whatever else he lacked, Bloor did not lack courage. Show him the danger and he would tackle it pluckily. He was not afraid of danger in the open. Only of danger undefined and tinged with the supernatural. Six Vera, Left to await results, Got up and dressed. She glanced over once or twice at the door. It was a good solid door. It was both bolted and locked and had an oak chair wedged under the handle. It could not be broken open by force. Certainly not by Dr. Armstrong. He was not a physically powerful man. If she were, Armstrong intent on murder, It was cunning that she would employ, Not force. She amused herself by reflecting on the means he might employ. He might, As Philip had suggested, Announce that one of the other two men was dead. Or he might possibly pretend to be mortally wounded himself, Might drag himself groaning to her door. There were other possibilities. He might inform her that the house was on fire. More, He might actually set the house on fire. Yes, That would be a possibility. Lure the other two men out of the house. Then, Having previously laid a trail of petrol, He might set light to it. And she, Like an idiot, Would remain barricaded in her room until it was too late. She crossed over to the window. Not too bad. At a pinch, One could escape that way. It would mean a drop, But there was a handy flower bed. She sat down and, Picking up her diary, Began to write in it in a clear flowing hand. One must pass the time. Suddenly, She stiffened to attention. She had heard a sound. It was, She thought, A sound like breaking glass. It came from somewhere downstairs. She listened hard, But the sound was not repeated. She heard, Or thought she heard, Stealthy sounds of footsteps, The creak of stairs, The rustle of garments. But there was nothing definite, And she concluded, As Blore had done earlier, That such sounds had their origin in her own imagination. But presently, She heard sounds of more concrete nature, People moving about downstairs, The murmur of voices, Then the very decided sound of someone mounting the stairs, Doors opening and shutting, Feet going up to the attic overhead, More noises from there. Finally, The steps came along the passage. Lumbar's voice said, Vera, You all right? Yes, What happened? Blore's voice said, Will you let us in? Vera went to the door. She removed the chair, Unlocked the door, And slid back the bolt. She opened the door. The two men were breathing hard. Their feet and the bottom of their trousers were soaking wet. She said again, What's happened? Lumbar's said, Armstrong's disappeared. Seven. Vera cried, What? Lumbar's said, Vanished? Clean off the island. Clean off the island. Blore concurred. Vanished, That's the word. Like some damned conjuring trick. Vera said impatiently, Nonsense, He's hiding somewhere. Blore said, No, He isn't. I tell you, There's nowhere to hide on this island. It's as bare as your hand. There's moonlight outside, As clear as day it is, And he's not to be found. Vera said, He doubled back to the house. Blore said, We thought that. We've searched the house too. You must have heard us. He's not here, I tell you. He's gone. Clean vanished. Vamoosed. Vera said incredulously, I don't believe it. Lumbar's said, It's true, My dear. He paused and then said, There's one other little fact. A pane in the dining room window has been smashed, And there are only three little soldier boys on the table. That concludes chapter 14 from the story And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie. Thank you for listening. I hope you have enjoyed this story. Become relaxed and possibly fallen asleep.