And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie

Marston who disagreed with the majority.
    “A bit unsporting, what?” he said. “Ought to ferret out the mystery before we go. Whole thing’s like a detective story. Positively thrilling.”
    The judge said acidly:
    “At my time of life, I have no desire for ‘thrills’ as you call them.”
    Anthony said with a grin:
    “The legal life’s narrowing! I’m all for crime! Here’s to it.”
    He picked up his drink and drank it off at a gulp.
    Too quickly, perhaps. He choked—choked badly. His face contorted, turned purple. He gasped for breath—then slid down off his chair, the glass falling from his hand.

Five
    I
    I t was so sudden and so unexpected that it took every one’s breath away. They remained stupidly staring at the crumpled figure on the ground.
    Then Dr. Armstrong jumped up and went over to him, kneeling beside him. When he raised his head his eyes were bewildered.
    He said in a low awe-struck whisper:
    “My God! he’s dead.”
    They didn’t take it in. Not at once.
    Dead? Dead? That young Norse God in the prime of his health and strength. Struck down all in a moment. Healthy young men didn’t die like that, choking over a whisky and soda….
    No, they couldn’t take it in.
    Dr. Armstrong was peering into the dead man’s face. He sniffed at the blue twisted lips. Then he picked up the glass from which Anthony Marston had been drinking.
    General Macarthur said:
    “Dead? D’you mean the fellow just choked and—and died?”
    The physician said:
    “You can call it choking if you like. He died of asphyxiation right enough.”
    He was sniffing now at the glass. He dipped a finger into the dregs and very cautiously just touched the finger with the tip of his tongue.
    His expression altered.
    General Macarthur said:
    “Never knew a man could die like that—just of a choking fit!”
    Emily Brent said in a clear voice:
    “In the midst of life we are in death.”
    Dr. Armstrong stood up. He said brusquely:
    “No, a man doesn’t die of a mere choking fit. Marston’s death wasn’t what we call a natural death.”
    Vera said almost in a whisper:
    “Was there—something—in the whisky?”
    Armstrong nodded.
    “Yes. Can’t say exactly. Everything points to one of the cyanides. No distinctive smell of Prussic Acid, probably Potassium Cyanide. It acts pretty well instantaneously.”
    The judge said sharply:
    “It was in his glass?”
    “Yes.”
    The doctor strode to the table where the drinks were. He removed the stopper from the whisky and smelt and tasted it. Then he tasted the soda water. He shook his head.
    “They’re both all right.”
    Lombard said:
    “You mean—he must have put the stuff in his glass himself? ”
    Armstrong nodded with a curiously dissatisfied expression. He said:
    “Seems like it.”
    Blore said:
    “Suicide, eh? That’s a queer go.”
    Vera said slowly:
    “You’d never think that he would kill himself. He was so alive. He was—oh—enjoying himself! When he came down the hill in his car this evening he looked—he looked—oh I can’t explain! ”
    But they knew what she meant. Anthony Marston, in the height of his youth and manhood, had seemed like a being who was immortal. And now, crumpled and broken, he lay on the floor.
    Dr. Armstrong said:
    “Is there any possibility other than suicide?”
    Slowly every one shook their heads. There could be no other explanation. The drinks themselves were untampered with. They had all seen Anthony Marston go across and help himself. It followed therefore that any cyanide in the drink must have been put there by Anthony Marston himself.
    And yet—why should Anthony Marston commit suicide?
    Blore said thoughtfully:
    “You know, doctor, it doesn’t seem right to me. I shouldn’t have said Mr. Marston was a suicidal type of gentleman.”
    Armstrong answered:
    “I agree.”
    II
    They had left it like that. What else was there to say?
    Together Armstrong and Lombard had carried the inert body of Anthony Marston to his