From my earliest youth I realized that my nature was a mass of contradic-tions. I have, to begin with, an incurably1 romantic imagination. The prac-tice of throwing a bottle into the sea with an important document insidewas one that never failed to thrill me when reading adventure stories as achild. It thrills me still—and for that reason I have adopted this course—writing my confession2, enclosing it in a bottle, sealing the latter, and cast-ing it into the waves. There is, I suppose, a hundred to one chance that myconfession may be found—and then (or do I flatter myself?) a hitherto un-solved murder mystery will be explained.
I was born with other traits besides my romantic fancy. I have a definitesadistic delight in seeing or causing death. I remember experiments withwasps — with various garden pests… From an early age I knew verystrongly the lust4 to kill.
But side by side with this went a contradictory5 trait—a strong sense ofjustice. It is abhorrent6 to me that an innocent person or creature shouldsuffer or die by any act of mine. I have always felt strongly that rightshould prevail.
It may be understood—I think a psychologist would understand—thatwith my mental make-up being what it was, I adopted the law as a profes-sion. The legal profession satisfied nearly all my instincts.
Crime and its punishment has always fascinated me. I enjoy readingevery kind of detective story and thriller7. I have devised for my ownprivate amusement the most ingenious ways of carrying out a murder.
When in due course I came to preside over a court of law, that othersecret instinct of mine was encouraged to develop. To see a wretchedcriminal squirming in the dock, suffering the tortures of the damned, ashis doom8 came slowly and slowly nearer, was to me an exquisite9 pleasure.
Mind you, I took no pleasure in seeing an innocent man there. On at leasttwo occasions I stopped cases where to my mind the accused was palpablyinnocent, directing the jury that there was no case. Thanks, however, tothe fairness and efficiency of our police force, the majority of the accusedpersons who have come before me to be tried for murder, have beenguilty.
I will say here that such was the case with the man Edward Seton. Hisappearance and manner were misleading and he created a good impres-sion on the jury. But not only the evidence, which was clear, though un-spectacular, but my own knowledge of criminals told me without anydoubt that the man had actually committed the crime with which he wascharged, the brutal11 murder of an elderly woman who trusted him.
I have a reputation as a hanging judge, but that is unfair. I have alwaysbeen strictly12 just and scrupulous13 in my summing up of a case.
All I have done is to protect the jury against the emotional effect of emo-tional appeals by some of our more emotional counsel. I have drawn14 theirattention to the actual evidence.
For some years past I have been aware of a change within myself, alessening of control—a desire to act instead of to judge.
I have wanted—let me admit it frankly—to commit a murder myself. I re-cognized this as the desire of the artist to express himself! I was, or couldbe, an artist in crime! My imagination, sternly checked by the exigenciesof my profession, waxed secretly to colossal15 force.
I must—I must—I must—commit a murder! And what is more, it must beno ordinary murder! It must be a fantastical crime — something stu-pendous—out of the common! In that one respect, I have still, I think, anadolescent’s imagination.
I wanted something theatrical16, impossible!
I wanted to kill…Yes, I wanted to kill…
But — incongruous as it may seem to some — I was restrained andhampered by my innate17 sense of justice. The innocent must not suffer.
And then, quite suddenly, the idea came to me—started by a chance re-mark uttered during casual conversation. It was a doctor to whom I wastalking—some ordinary undistinguished GP. He mentioned casually18 howoften murder must be committed which the law was unable to touch.
And he instanced a particular case—that of an old lady, a patient of hiswho had recently died. He was, he said, himself convinced that her deathwas due to the withholding19 of a restorative drug by a married couple whoattended on her and who stood to benefit very substantially by her death.
That sort of thing, he explained, was quite impossible to prove, but he wasnevertheless quite sure of it in his own mind. He added that there weremany cases of a similar nature going on all the time—cases of deliberatemurder—and all quite untouchable by the law.
That was the beginning of the whole thing. I suddenly saw my wayclear. And I determined20 to commit not one murder, but murder on agrand scale.
A childish rhyme of my infancy21 came back into my mind—the rhyme ofthe ten little soldier boys. It had fascinated me as a child of two—the inex-orable diminishment—the sense of inevitability22.
I began, secretly, to collect victims…
I will not take up space here by going into details of how this was ac-complished. I had a certain routine line of conversation which I employedwith nearly every one I met—and the results I got were really surprising.
During the time I was in a nursing home I collected the case of Dr Arm-strong—a violently teetotal Sister who attended on me being anxious toprove to me the evils of drink by recounting to me a case many years agoin hospital when a doctor under the influence of alcohol had killed a pa-tient on whom he was operating. A careless question as to where the Sis-ter in question had trained, etc., soon gave me the necessary data. Itracked down the doctor and the patient mentioned without difficulty.
A conversation between two old military gossips in my Club put me onthe track of General Macarthur. A man who had recently returned fromthe Amazon gave me a devastating23 résumé of the activities of one PhilipLombard. An indignant memsahib in Majorca recounted the tale of thePuritan Emily Brent and her wretched servant girl. Anthony Marston I se-lected from a large group of people who had committed similar offences.
His complete callousness24 and his inability to feel any responsibility for thelives he had taken made him, I considered, a type dangerous to the com-munity and unfit to live. Ex-Inspector Blore came my way quite naturally,some of my professional brethren discussing the Landor case with free-dom and vigour25. I took a serious view of his offence. The police, as ser-vants of the law, must be of a high order of integrity. For their word is per-force believed by virtue26 of their profession.
Finally there was the case of Vera Claythorne. It was when I was cross-ing the Atlantic. At a late hour one night the sole occupants of thesmoking-room were myself and a good-looking young man called HugoHamilton.
Hugo Hamilton was unhappy. To assuage27 that unhappiness he hadtaken a considerable quantity of drink. He was in the maudlin28 confidentialstage. Without much hope of any result I automatically started my routineconversational gambit. The response was startling. I can remember hiswords now. He said:
‘You’re right. Murder isn’t what most people think—giving someone adollop of arsenic—pushing them over a cliff—that sort of stuff.’ He leanedforward, thrusting his face into mine. He said, ‘I’ve known a murderess—known her, I tell you. And what’s more I was crazy about her…God helpme, sometimes I think I still am…It’s hell, I tell you—hell. You see, she didit more or less for me…Not that I ever dreamed…Women are fiends—abso-lute fiends—you wouldn’t think a girl like that—a nice straight jolly girl—you wouldn’t think she’d do that, would you? That she’d take a kid out tosea and let it drown—you wouldn’t think a woman could do a thing likethat?’
I said to him:
‘Are you sure she did do it?’
He said and in saying it he seemed suddenly to sober up:
‘I’m quite sure. Nobody else ever thought of it. But I knew the moment Ilooked at her—when I got back—after…And she knew I knew…What shedidn’t realize was that I loved that kid…’
He didn’t say any more, but it was easy enough for me to trace back thestory and reconstruct it.
I needed a tenth victim. I found him in a man named Morris. He was ashady little creature. Amongst other things he was a dope pedlar and hewas responsible for inducing the daughter of friends of mine to take todrugs. She committed suicide at the age of twenty-one.
During all this time of search my plan had been gradually maturing inmy mind. It was now complete and the coping stone to it was an interviewI had with a doctor in Harley Street. I have mentioned that I underwent anoperation. My interview in Harley Street told me that another operationwould be useless. My medical adviser29 wrapped up the information veryprettily, but I am accustomed to getting at the truth of a statement.
I did not tell the doctor of my decision—that my death should not be aslow and protracted30 one as it would be in the course of nature. No, mydeath should take place in a blaze of excitement. I would live before I died.
And now to the actual mechanics of the crime of Soldier Island. To ac-quire the island, using the man Morris to cover my tracks, was easyenough. He was an expert in that sort of thing. Tabulating31 the informationI had collected about my prospective32 victims, I was able to concoct33 a suit-able bait for each. None of my plans miscarried. All my guests arrived atSoldier Island on the 8th of August. The party included myself.
Morris was already accounted for. He suffered from indigestion. Beforeleaving London I gave him a capsule to take last thing at night which had,I said, done wonders for my own gastric34 juices. He accepted unhesitatingly—the man was a slight hypochondriac. I had no fear that he would leaveany compromising documents or memoranda36 behind. He was not thatsort of man.
The order of death upon the island had been subjected by me to specialthought and care. There were, I considered, amongst my guests, varyingdegrees of guilt10. Those whose guilt was the lightest should, I decided37, passout first, and not suffer the prolonged mental strain and fear that themore cold-blooded offenders38 were to suffer.
Anthony Marston and Mrs Rogers died first, the one instantaneously theother in a peaceful sleep. Marston, I recognized, was a type born withoutthat feeling of moral responsibility which most of us have. He was amoral—pagan. Mrs Rogers, I had no doubt, had acted very largely under the in-fluence of her husband.
I need not describe closely how those two met their deaths. The policewill have been able to work that out quite easily. Potassium cyanide is eas-ily obtained by householders for putting down wasps3. I had some in mypossession and it was easy to slip it into Marston’s almost empty glass dur-ing the tense period after the gramophone recital39.
I may say that I watched the faces of my guests closely during that in-dictment and I had no doubt whatever, after my long court experience,that one and all were guilty.
During recent bouts40 of pain, I had been ordered a sleeping draught—Chloral Hydrate. It had been easy for me to suppress this until I had alethal amount in my possession. When Rogers brought up some brandyfor his wife, he set it down on a table and in passing that table I put thestuff into the brandy. It was easy, for at that time suspicion had not begunto set in.
General Macarthur met his death quite painlessly. He did not hear mecome up behind him. I had, of course, to choose my time for leaving theterrace very carefully, but everything was successful.
As I had anticipated, a search was made of the island and it was dis-covered that there was no one on it but our seven selves. That at once cre-ated an atmosphere of suspicion. According to my plan I should shortlyneed an ally. I selected Dr Armstrong for that part. He was a gullible41 sortof man, he knew me by sight and reputation and it was inconceivable tohim that a man of my standing42 should actually be a murderer! All his sus-picions were directed against Lombard and I pretended to concur43 in these.
I hinted to him that I had a scheme by which it might be possible to trapthe murderer into incriminating himself.
Though a search had been made of everyone’s room, no search had asyet been made of the persons themselves. But that was bound to comesoon.
I killed Rogers on the morning of August 10th. He was chopping sticksfor lighting44 the fire and did not hear me approach. I found the key to thedining-room door in his pocket. He had locked it the night before.
In the confusion attending the finding of Rogers’ body I slipped intoLombard’s room and abstracted his revolver. I knew that he would haveone with him—in fact I had instructed Morris to suggest as much when heinterviewed him.
At breakfast I slipped my last dose of chloral into Miss Brent’s coffeewhen I was refilling her cup. We left her in the dining-room. I slipped inthere a little while later—she was nearly unconscious and it was easy toinject a strong solution of cyanide into her. The bumble bee business wasreally rather childish—but somehow, you know, it pleased me. I liked ad-hering as closely as possible to my nursery rhyme.
Immediately after this what I had already foreseen happened—indeed Ibelieve I suggested it myself. We all submitted to a rigorous search. I hadsafely hidden away the revolver, and had no more cyanide or chloral inmy possession.
It was then that I intimated to Armstrong that we must carry our planinto effect. It was simply this—I must appear to be the next victim. Thatwould perhaps rattle45 the murderer—at any rate once I was supposed to bedead I could move about the house and spy upon the unknown murderer.
Armstrong was keen on the idea. We carried it out that evening. A littleplaster of red mud on the forehead—the red curtain and the wool and thestage was set. The lights of the candles were very flickering46 and uncertainand the only person who would examine me closely was Armstrong.
It worked perfectly47. Miss Claythorne screamed the house down whenshe found the seaweed which I had thoughtfully arranged in her room.
They all rushed up, and I took up my pose of a murdered man.
The effect on them when they found me was all that could be desired.
Armstrong acted his part in the most professional manner. They carriedme upstairs and laid me on my bed. Nobody worried about me, they wereall too deadly scared and terrified of each other.
I had a rendezvous48 with Armstrong outside the house at a quarter totwo. I took him up a little way behind the house on the edge of the cliff. Isaid that here we could see if any one else approached us, and we shouldnot be seen from the house as the bedrooms faced the other way. He wasstill quite unsuspicious—and yet he ought to have been warned—if he hadonly remembered the words of the nursery rhyme. ‘A red herring swal-lowed one…’ He took the red herring all right.
It was quite easy. I uttered an exclamation49, leant over the cliff, told himto look, wasn’t that the mouth of a cave? He leant right over. A quick vig-orous push sent him off his balance and splash into the heaving sea below.
I returned to the house. It must have been my footfall that Blore heard. Afew minutes after I had returned to Armstrong’s room I left it, this timemaking a certain amount of noise so that someone should hear me. I hearda door open as I got to the bottom of the stairs. They must have justglimpsed my figure as I went out of the front door.
It was a minute or two before they followed me. I had gone straightround the house and in at the dining-room window which I had left open.
I shut the window and later I broke the glass. Then I went upstairs andlaid myself out again on my bed.
I calculated that they would search the house again, but I did not thinkthey would look closely at any of the corpses50, a mere51 twitch52 aside of thesheet to satisfy themselves that it was not Armstrong masquerading as abody. This is exactly what occurred.
I forgot to say that I returned the revolver to Lombard’s room. It may beof interest to someone to know where it was hidden during the search.
There was a big pile of tinned food in the larder53. I opened the bottommostof the tins—biscuits I think it contained, bedded in the revolver and re-placed the strip of adhesive54 tape.
I calculated, and rightly, that no one would think of working their waythrough a pile of apparently55 untouched foodstuffs56, especially as all the toptins were soldered57.
The red curtain I had concealed58 by laying it flat on the seat of one of thedrawing-room chairs under the chintz cover and the wool in the seat cush-ion, cutting a small hole.
And now came the moment that I had anticipated—three people whowere so frightened of each other that anything might happen—and one ofthem had a revolver. I watched them from the windows of the house. WhenBlore came up alone I had the big marble clock poised59 ready. Exit Blore…From my window I saw Vera Claythorne shoot Lombard. A daring andresourceful young woman. I always thought she was a match for him andmore. As soon as that had happened I set the stage in her bedroom.
It was an interesting psychological experiment. Would the conscious-ness of her own guilt, the state of nervous tension consequent on havingjust shot a man, be sufficient, together with the hypnotic suggestion of thesurroundings, to cause her to take her own life? I thought it would. I wasright. Vera Claythorne hanged herself before my eyes where I stood in theshadow of the wardrobe.
And now for the last stage. I came forward, picked up the chair and setit against the wall. I looked for the revolver and found it at the top of thestairs where the girl had dropped it. I was careful to preserve her finger-prints on it.
And now?
I shall finish writing this. I shall enclose it and seal it in a bottle and Ishall throw the bottle into the sea.
Why?
Yes, why?
It was my ambition to invent a murder mystery that no one could solve.
But no artist, I now realize, can be satisfied with art alone. There is anatural craving60 for recognition which cannot be gainsaid61.
I have, let me confess it in all humility62, a pitiful human wish thatsomeone should know just how clever I have been…In all this, I have assumed that the mystery of Soldier Island will remainunsolved. It may be, of course, that the police will be cleverer than I think.
There are, after all, three clues. One: the police are perfectly aware thatEdward Seton was guilty. They know, therefore, that one of the ten peopleon the island was not a murderer in any sense of the word, and it follows,paradoxically, that that person must logically be the murderer. The secondclue lies in the seventh verse of the nursery rhyme. Armstrong’s death isassociated with a ‘red herring’ which he swallowed—or rather which res-ulted in swallowing him! That is to say that at that stage of the affair somehocus-pocus is clearly indicated—and that Armstrong was deceived by itand sent to his death. That might start a promising35 line of inquiry63. For atthat period there are only four persons and of those four I am clearly theonly one likely to inspire him with confidence.
The third is symbolical64. The manner of my death marking me on theforehead. The brand of Cain.
There is, I think, little more to say.
After entrusting65 my bottle and its message to the sea I shall go to myroom and lay myself down on the bed. To my eyeglasses is attached whatseems a length of fine black cord—but it is elastic66 cord. I shall lay theweight of the body on the glasses. The cord I shall loop round the door-handle and attach it, not too solidly, to the revolver. What I think will hap-pen is this.
My hand, protected with a handkerchief, will press the trigger. My handwill fall to my side, the revolver, pulled by the elastic, will recoil67 to thedoor, jarred by the door-handle it will detach itself from the elastic andfall. The elastic, released, will hang down innocently from the eyeglasseson which my body is lying. A handkerchief lying on the floor will cause nocomment whatever.
I shall be found, laid neatly68 on my bed, shot through the forehead in ac-cordance with the record kept by my fellow victims. Times of death can-not be stated with any accuracy by the time our bodies are examined.
When the sea goes down, there will come from the mainland boats andmen.
And they will find ten dead bodies and an unsolved problem on SoldierIsland.
Signed:
Lawrence Wargrave.
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1
incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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wasps
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| 黄蜂( wasp的名词复数 )； 胡蜂； 易动怒的人； 刻毒的人 | |
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lust
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contradictory
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abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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thriller
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| n.惊险片，恐怖片 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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guilt
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brutal
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strictly
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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drawn
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colossal
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theatrical
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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withholding
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determined
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infancy
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inevitability
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devastating
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callousness
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vigour
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virtue
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assuage
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maudlin
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adviser
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protracted
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tabulating
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prospective
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concoct
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gastric
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promising
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memoranda
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decided
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offenders
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recital
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bouts
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gullible
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standing
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concur
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lighting
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rattle
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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rendezvous
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exclamation
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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mere
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twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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53
larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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54
adhesive
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| n.粘合剂；adj.可粘着的，粘性的 | |
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55
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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56
foodstuffs
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| 食物，食品( foodstuff的名词复数 ) | |
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57
soldered
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| v.（使）焊接，焊合( solder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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59
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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60
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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61
gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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63
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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64
symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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65
entrusting
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的现在分词 ) | |
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66
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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67
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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68
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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