Mr. Justice Wargrave sat in the corner of a first-class smoking carriage, puffing at a cigar and reading the Times.
He glanced at his watch – another two hours to go.
He put the newspaper down and, in his mind, went through the information he had read in the papers about Nigger Island. At first, an American millionaire who was fond of yachting had bought it. He had built a luxurious modern house on this little island off the Devon coast. But soon that millionaire had put up the house and island for sale because, unfortunately, his new third wife was a bad sailor. Then, according to the newspapers, a Mr. Owen had bought it. After that the rumours of the gossip writers had started: in reality, Miss Gabrielle Turl, the Hollywood film star, had bought Nigger Island; she wanted to spend some months there free from all publicity; the island was to be an abode for Royalty?! Or – young Lord I… had surrendered to Cupid[1] at last and had bought it for a honeymoon! Somebody knew for a fact that the Admiralty had purchased the island for some very hush-hush experiments!
Mr. Justice Wargrave took out a letter from his pocket. The handwriting was practically illegible but some words here and there were quite clear. Dearest Lawrence… so many years since I heard anything of you… must come to Nigger Island… the most picturesque place… remember… old days… communion with Nature… bask in sunshine… 12:40 from Paddington… meet you at Oakbridge. The letter was signed by Lady Constance Culmington.
Mr. Justice Wargrave remembered that he had last seen Lady Constance Culmington eight years ago. She had then been going to Italy to bask in the sun and be at one with Nature and the contadini[2]. Later, he had heard, she had gone to Syria where she intended to bask in yet stronger sun and live at one with Nature and the bedouin[3].
Constance Culmington, in his opinion, was exactly the sort of woman who would buy an island and surround herself with mystery! His head nodded in approval of his logic. He slept…
Vera Claythorne, in a third-class carriage with five other travellers in it, leaned back and closed her eyes. It was very hot in the train. It would be nice to get to the sea! She thought she was lucky to get a secretarial post during her holiday. When you wanted a holiday post, it nearly always meant looking after a crowd of children – secretarial holiday posts were much more difficult to get. Even the agency hadn’t had much hope.
And then the letter had come. It was:
“Your name has been given to me by the Skilled Women’s Agency together with their recommendation. I agree to pay you the salary you ask and hope you will take up your duties on August 8th. The train is the 12:40 from Paddington and you will be met at Oakbridge station. I enclose five-pound notes for expenses.
Yours truly,
Una Nancy Owen.”
And the stamped address was the Nigger Island, Sticklehaven, Devon…
Nigger Island! The papers have been full of all sorts of hints and interesting rumours about it lately! Probably that was mostly untrue. But the house had certainly been built by a millionaire and was said to be absolutely the last word in luxury.
Vera Claythorne felt very tired after a hard term as a games mistress[4] in a third-class school. She thought to herself – “If only I could get a job at some decent school.”
But then she thought that she was lucky to have even that. With a heavy heart she thought: “People don’t like a Coroner’s[5] Inquest, even if the Coroner did acquit me of all blame!”
The Coroner had even praised her for her courage, she remembered. And Mrs. Hamilton had been kindness itself to her – only Hugo – (but she wouldn’t think of Hugo!)
Suddenly, though it was very hot in the carriage, she shivered and wished she wasn’t going to the sea. A picture rose clearly before her mind. Cyril’s head, bobbing up and down, swimming to the rock. Up and down – up and down. And herself, swimming in easy expert strokes after him – but knowing, only too well, that she wouldn’t be in time.
The sea – warm mornings spent lying out on the sands – Hugo – Hugo who had said he loved her.
She must not think of Hugo.
She opened her eyes and looked at the man opposite her. A tall man with a brown face, light eyes set rather close together and an arrogant almost cruel mouth.
She thought to herself:
“I bet he’s been to some interesting parts of the world and seen some interesting things.”
Philip Lombard, sizing up the girl opposite with his quick moving eyes, thought to himself:
“Quite attractive – a bit schoolmistressy perhaps…”
A cool customer[6], he decided – and one who could hold her own – in love or war. He’d rather like to take her on.
He frowned. No, he’d got to keep his mind on the job.
What exactly was that job, he wondered? That little Jew had been damned mysterious. He had only said that a client of his had asked him to hand Lombard one hundred guineas in return for which Lombard would travel by train to Sticklehaven, Devon. The nearest to that place station was Oakbridge. There he would be met and motored to Sticklehaven where a motor launch would take him to Nigger Island.
