And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie Page B

They’d got on well together from the beginning. They’d talked of plays and music and pictures together. She’d teased him, made fun of him, ragged him. And he, Macarthur, had been delighted at the thought that Leslie took quite a motherly interest in the boy.
    Motherly indeed! Damn’ fool not to remember that Richmond was twenty-eight to Leslie’s twenty-nine.
    He’d loved Leslie. He could see her now. Her heart-shaped face, and her dancing deep grey eyes, and the brown curling mass of her hair. He’d loved Leslie and he’d believed in her absolutely.
    Out there in France, in the middle of all the hell of it, he’d sat thinking of her, taken her picture out of the breast pocket of his tunic.
    And then—he’d found out!
    It had come about exactly in the way things happened in books. The letter in the wrong envelope. She’d been writing to them both and she’d put her letter to Richmond in the envelope addressed to her husband. Even now, all these years after, he could feel the shock of it—the pain….
    God, it had hurt!
    And the business had been going on some time. The letter made that clear. Weekends! Richmond’s last leave….
    Leslie—Leslie and Arthur!
    God damn the fellow! Damn his smiling face, his brisk “Yes, sir.” Liar and hypocrite! Stealer of another man’s wife!
    It had gathered slowly—that cold murderous rage.
    He’d managed to carry on as usual—to show nothing. He’d tried to make his manner to Richmond just the same.
    Had he succeeded? He thought so. Richmond hadn’t suspected. Inequalities of temper were easily accounted for out there, where men’s nerves were continually snapping under the strain.
    Only young Armitage had looked at him curiously once or twice. Quite a young chap, but he’d had perceptions, that boy.
    Armitage, perhaps, had guessed—when the time came.
    He’d sent Richmond deliberately to death. Only a miracle could have brought him through unhurt. That miracle didn’t happen. Yes, he’d sent Richmond to his death and he wasn’t sorry. It had been easy enough. Mistakes were being made all the time, officers being sent to death needlessly. All was confusion, panic. People might say afterwards “Old Macarthur lost his nerve a bit, made some colossal blunders, sacrificed some of his best men.” They couldn’t say more.
    But young Armitage was different. He’d looked at his commanding officer very oddly. He’d known, perhaps, that Richmond was being deliberately sent to death.
    (After the War was over—had Armitage talked?)
    Leslie hadn’t known. Leslie had wept for her lover (he supposed) but her weeping was over by the time he’d come back to England. He’d never told her that he’d found her out. They’d gone on together—only, somehow, she hadn’t seemed very real anymore. And then, three or four years later she’d got double pneumonia and died.
    That had been a long time ago. Fifteen years—sixteen years?
    And he’d left the Army and come to live in Devon—bought the sort of little place he’d always meant to have. Nice neighbours—pleasant part of the world. There was a bit of shooting and fishing. He’d gone to church on Sundays. (But not the day that the lesson was read about David putting Uriah in the forefront of the battle. Somehow he couldn’t face that. Gave him an uncomfortable feeling.)
    Everybody had been very friendly. At first, that is. Later, he’d had an uneasy feeling that people were talking about him behind his back. They eyed him differently, somehow. As though they’d heard something—some lying rumour….
    (Armitage? Supposing Armitage had talked.)
    He’d avoided people after that—withdrawn into himself. Unpleasant to feel that people were discussing you.
    And all so long ago. So—so purposeless now. Leslie had faded into the distance and Arthur Richmond too. Nothing of what had happened seemed to matter anymore.
    It made life lonely, though. He’d taken to shunning his old Army friends.
    (If Armitage had