DISCLAIMER: I did not write Pride and Prejudice and/or And Then There Were None. I'm not Jane Austen or Agatha Christie either.

(But if any of you knows how I could become Christie and Austen at the same time, PM me. I'm more than willing to sell both of my kidneys. And my soul.)

Chapter 1

Vera Claythorne - Elizabeth Bennet

Vera Claythorne was having a bad dream. In her dream, she saw the coastline again, sunny and warm, the surface of the water reflecting back the blinding whiteness of the sun. The sharp edges of the rocks in the distance cutting into the material of the horizon, black and foreboding. The cries of the seagulls, sharp but familiar.

Another kind of cry, a woman, collapsing next to a small, lifeless body. A pair of eyes looking up into hers, trusting, hopeful; the flawless blue sky reflecting back on the big, round glasses. A young boy's eyes. The same eyes, just an hour later, now half-closed, forever staring up into the same flawless blue sky. She, sitting next to him on the wet sand, shivering and choking, but without tears in her eyes or remorse in her heart. Then another pair of eyes, this time belonging to a young man, a pair of eyes she would recognize anywhere, anytime… Looking at her with cheerfulness, with understanding, with love, with desire; and then with fear and shock and anger and – worst of all – disgust and hate. That look made her cry out in despair; suddenly, the train jolted under her and she was fully awake. She stretched anxiously. She was always restless on longer journeys – she wasn't used to sit this much in one place. How she longed to roam vast, open spaces right now! Tall, dewy grass brushing her knees, sharp rocks under her palm as she climbed over them, wet sand under her feet, slightly sinking in under her weight.

This brought her back to her dream.

"Hugo" she thought. "If only I knew then what I know now…"

It will not do to dwell on these memories. She didn't have the right qualifications for this job, but she was picked none the less, so she had to stay focused. She needed the job. She needed the money. Whatever happened in the past will remain in the past. Vera Claythorne was a strong-willed young woman who always followed through no matter what. If she was determined that the past will remain the past, then it cannot be in any other way. She will not let it be any other way.

Doctor Edward Armstrong – Doctor William Collins

The car was running smoothly. The weather was nice. He was going to spend a fine, relaxing weekend on an island. Even if it was work, there was no reason for him not to enjoy himself. A little relaxation was all he needed. Perhaps there will be other guests to mingle with. Important people, even. The letter said as much. It will be a very pleasant weekend. If only his hands would stop shaking.

Mr. Rogers – Mrs. Reynolds

The house was ready to welcome the guests. She saw to that. Diligence and precision were crucial in her line of work. It was never easy to run a household, but she loved the challenge. Stopping in the grand hall on her way to the kitchen, she looked into the big mirror on the wall. Her hands smoothed down her skirt and tucked back a stray strand of grey hair into her otherwise impeccable chignon. She nodded to her reflection. She looked the part of the ideal servant. Inconsequential but reliable all the same. Now if only she could find that useless, idiotic husband of hers and make sure he did everything he was trusted with – they had guests to accommodate very soon.

General John MacArthur – General John Forster

The scenery was changing rapidly on the other side of the window as the train tore through land, the rolling hills of infinite green turning into more rocky ground with long, dry grass. Too rapidly, according to the general. All this rush and haste, what good it did? No good at all. It belonged to young, hot-headed men and women. All impatient and impulsive. Making rash decisions. Well, the consequences of one's rash decisions always catch up with one. The general was a patient, strategic man. He always waited, calm and composed, for the right moment, and then struck down on his opponent. This tactic served him more than well in the war. It made him survive. And it served him well in his personal life too. He knew he made a mistake when he married a woman twenty years his junior, but he was so in love. He acted like a love-struck young lad barely out of the school-room, for God's sake! But one's rash decisions always catch up with one. When he realized the depth of his mistake, he did not make a scene like some excitable, jealous young lover. It was high time to act like a man of his age. His patient, calculating way of thinking helped him in the war. There was no reason not to exercise the same principles in his marriage. He waited patiently, until the right moment came… and then he struck down on his opponent.

"All's fair in love and war." Murmured the general. There was the distinct scent of salt in the air. It was the scent of the sea, and the scent of blood. "All three of us must have known that we will have to pay for our actions. And we did."

Mrs. Rogers – Mr. Reynolds

Mr. Rogers was very afraid. In fact, he was afraid of a great many things. In this moment for instance, he was afraid that he forgot something.

"Did I made up the bed in the green room? Yes, I most certainly did. Yes. Yes, I remember now. I've done it in the morning already, didn't I? Yes. Or did I? What if I did not? Maybe it was the blue room? It's almost the same colour. Should I check it again? Yes, yes I should. Just to make sure. Yes." He turned back towards the direction he just came from, but stopped almost immediately. The corridor was empty and eerily quiet. The wind was blowing hard outside, but he heard none of it.

"No. I don't have the time. There are other things to do. I wouldn't want to anger Mrs. Rogers." He shuddered. Just the thought of it made his heart beat violently in his chest.

Mr. Rogers was also very afraid of his wife. He wiped his sweaty palms into his pants and resolutely started walking back towards the green room. Better safe than sorry. He stopped himself again, this time in front of the door.

"But if I made up the bed already, I'm wasting time." He reached for the doorknob. It was a nice brass doorknob with intricate detail, but all he saw was one more thing that needed a daily polish. Just like at their previous place. His hands started sweating again. He may be afraid that he forgot something, and he may be afraid of his wife; but the thing he was most afraid of was the past. His previous workplace. He snatched his hand back from the knob, but it was too late. He will have to clean and polish it again. But first he had to check the bed once more. Then he will polish the –

His head snapped up, alarmed.

"Did I clean the silverware?"

He scurried down the hall, his heart in his throat, green room and bedsheets all forgotten.

Judge Wargrave – Catherine DeBourgh

Judge Wargrave was sitting, despite her old age, with her spine erect, her shoulders pulled back and her head held high. Long years of respectability and responsibility taught her to always carry herself with the outmost dignity. She had a reputation to uphold. The shades of justice should not be polluted.

She was holding a letter in her hands; hands that looked much like they were covered with paper instead of skin – a single ring on her left pinkie with a big ruby in it. She never married – she needed no one in her life to help her on the way to success, and love was an alien idea to her.

Sometimes she stole a glance at the letter, an almost knowing look in her eyes, just to turn back to the window. She was close to her destination now.

"I just hope we will be on time." She detested tardiness. Things always had to go according to plan.

She recalled the first part of her letter. Mr. U. N. Owen, whoever he might be, had written her without knowing her. That was a bold move, but then again, she rather liked bold people. They did as they pleased. They were interesting. During her time as a judge, she met a lot of bold people. They were usually foolish, too, thinking that they will be able to escape justice. Her old, wrinkled faces contorted into a crooked smile as she thought about how their fate reached them all, one by one. Justice was served.

Phillip Lombard – William Darcy

His cigarette was burning low as he stood at the edge of the cliff, hands in his pockets, carefully examining the sea, a stoic expression on his face. A storm was coming. There was always a storm coming, wasn't there? Everything seemed grey; from the silvery waves crushing against the dark rocks to the ash-coloured sky, and the heavy clouds with a tint of scarlet to them. The sun was setting fast now – it wasn't summer anymore. He pulled the collar of his coat even higher as the wind cut his face like a knife, then checked his watch. The other guests shouldn't be long now. But this weather! He was so used to Africa, to the dry heat of the desert, he almost forget what it was like to be home in England. Home… not that he ever knew anything that came close to that term. He was somewhat well-off, yes, the diamond-business was thriving, and he owned a house in London, but he never cared for London. He usually let it out for the whole year, then went to wherever the wind had blown him. The less civilization, the better. Suddenly, he wished he didn't accept the offer– he didn't need the money, really – and there was a strange feeling at the back of his throat, like a lump he couldn't swallow. He wasn't afraid; Philip Lombard learned early in his life that fear was only an excuse to run away from things we didn't like. No, he wasn't afraid, but for a moment he felt like he got a glimpse into the future, and there was nothing there. Nothing. His own life meant as little to him as other people's life, but this emptiness made him wary of times to come. He felt for his gun at the small of his back, tucked into his pants. It felt good; safe and familiar. He took a last drag from his cigarette, the smoke mixing with the salty air in his lungs. There was a car, a red, shiny beast coming up on the road with high speed. It was time.

Miss Emily Brent – Miss Charlotte Lucas

Their train got in late, but Miss Brent didn't mind. She preferred punctuality, yes, but everything happened according to the Lord's will. She never understood why people couldn't see it. Young people, especially. Her heart bled for all those poor, misguided souls, but one had to be practical. And fear the word of God. It was Christian duty to forgive errors and lapses in judgement, but it was also Christian duty to punish them. That was the only way to make sure they never happened again.

"The Lord shall judge the people: judge me, o Lord, according to my righteousness, and according to mine integrity that is in me."

Anthony Marston – Richard Fitzwilliam

Richard Fitzwilliam was light-heartedly whistling the tune of a scandalous little song with questionable lyrics. It didn't take much to make him happy – he was of happy disposition ever since he was a child. He was amiable, jovial and well-liked wherever he went. His motto was simple.

"Never take anything too seriously." – He said out loud to himself in a sing-along voice. It always worked for him. He was living his life with all the ease and carelessness of a playboy. He knew he was going to get old and die once, but that was far away, and why shouldn't he have some fun until then?

He sped up, listening lovingly to the purring of the engine. He loved his car. And speed. True, it got him into some trouble once or twice, but even in those cases, it wasn't really his fault. People should look around before they step out onto the open road. This was the twentieth century, what did they expect, horses and carriages?
He laughed out loud as he caught up with some grumpy old driver and managed to slightly run him off the road. The driver got out, and shouted after him, shaking his fists.

He looked back at him over his shoulder and laughed harder. These old people. Didn't they realize that their time was up?

Detective Henry Blore – Detective George Wickham

"Never mind the change. Here, take this." – said Detective Henry Blore, handing some money to the driver as the car stopped at the small bay. He grabbed his bags and got out. There were already people standing on the dock with suitcases and trunks, he noted angrily. He tried to arrive first, booking a room at the only inn in the small village the day before. He wanted to explore the area a little bit, to ask around about the island and such, but the barmaid at the tavern was friendly and somewhat prettyish – and now he was late.

"Blast it all! This is probably for the best." – He took a moment to observe the group before joining them.

"One, two, three… five, six. Sounds about right. Someone's not here." – He really wanted to pull out his notepad and check the facts once more, but he didn't have the time, and he couldn't risk being noticed. He had to act like a decent, average gentleman trading in tins and canned food. Likeable, but nothing too noteworthy.

His eyes squinted as his gaze travelled from person to person. The young man in the dashing suit and sunglasses had to be Anthony Marston. Next to him a middle-aged woman around thirty… no, more like forty… Miss Brent. Yes. Two gentlemen, one in a fine, well-tailored suit talking animatedly to the other, who didn't seem to feel comfortable in his – probably wasn't used to it – the doctor and the general? Yes, the older man had to be General MacArthur; his whole air and stance cried a military man. They already seemed to be on friendly terms – interesting. His eyes moved further along. Now there was something for sore eyes. A nice pair of legs if he ever saw one. Miss Vera Claythorne, the ex-gymnastic teacher, obviously. The old witch must be Judge DeBourgh.

"Are we not going to join them?" – He heard a deep voice from behind. He spun around, only to come face to face with a tall, dark-haired man. He had a knowing, wolfish smile. Blore didn't like that smile at all. And he didn't like the man either, that's for sure. Phillip Lombard. How long has he been watching him? And what did he observe?

The man in question gestured with his hand, and as Blore reluctantly moved forward, Lombard introduced himself.

"Phillip Lombard. You were quite lost in your thoughts, Mr. - ?"

"Davis. Mr. Davis. Nice to meet you Mr. Lombard."

"Oh" said Mr. Lombard, his dangerous grin widening. "The pleasure's all mine."