When you first meet Anthony Marston in Agatha Christie’s masterpiece And Then There Were None, he doesn’t look like a victim. He looks like a god. Or at least, that’s how Christie wants you to see him—tanned, blue-eyed, and driving a flashy "Super Sports Dalmain" like he owns the English countryside. He’s the peak of 1930s privilege. Honestly, he’s basically the "influencer" of the pre-war era, obsessed with speed, booze, and having a good time.
But by the end of the fourth chapter, this "Norse God" is dead on the floor. He's the first one to go. No grand mystery, no long-drawn-out torture. Just a quick gulp of whiskey, a purple face, and a sudden collapse.
It feels sudden. Maybe even a bit "easy" for a murder mystery. But if you look closer at how Marston fits into the twisted justice of Soldier Island, his early exit is actually the most logical part of the whole book. He had to be the first one to die because, in the eyes of the killer, he was the least "guilty" in terms of intent, yet the most dangerous in terms of character.
The Crime of John and Lucy Combes
Every guest on Soldier Island has a secret. For Marston, that secret is John and Lucy Combes. On November 14, 1938, Marston was speeding near Cambridge when he struck and killed these two children.
Now, in a modern court, he’d probably be looking at vehicular manslaughter. But Marston? He got a one-year license suspension and a fine. His friends stood up for him in court. He walked away.
What makes Marston truly chilling isn't just the fact that he killed two kids. It’s how he feels about it. When the gramophone record—lovingly titled "Swan Song"—accuses him of murder, he doesn't break down in tears. He doesn't even look guilty. He calls it "beastly bad luck."
"Must have been a couple of kids I ran over near Cambridge. Beastly bad luck."
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When the other guests look at him in horror, he clarifies that he meant it was bad luck for him. It was a "beastly nuisance" that he couldn't drive for a year. He has zero empathy. He’s a functional sociopath with a trust fund.
Why Anthony Marston Had to Die First
You’ve probably wondered why Justice Wargrave (the mastermind behind the whole thing) chose Marston to kick off the "Ten Little Soldiers" nursery rhyme.
The rhyme starts: “Ten little Soldier Boys went out to dine; One choked his little self and then there were nine.” Marston "chokes" on potassium cyanide slipped into his whiskey. But why him? Why not the more "evil" characters like Vera Claythorne or Philip Lombard?
The answer lies in Wargrave's twisted philosophy of justice. Wargrave didn't just want to kill people; he wanted them to suffer through the psychological weight of their own guilt. He saved the "most guilty"—those who were fully aware of their crimes and haunted by them—for the very end.
Marston is at the bottom of that pile. He doesn't feel guilt. He can't feel guilt. To him, the deaths of the Combes children were just a minor inconvenience, like a flat tire. If Wargrave had left Marston alive until the end, Marston wouldn't have been scared. He wouldn't have reflected on his sins. He would have just kept asking when the next round of drinks was coming.
Basically, Marston was too shallow to be "punished" by the island's atmosphere. The only way to deal with him was to get him out of the way early.
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The Symbolism of the "Norse God"
Christie describes Marston as having a "well-proportioned body" and "crisp hair." He’s a physical specimen. In literature, when someone is described as "more than mortal," it’s usually a massive red flag.
By killing the strongest, youngest, and most "invincible" guest first, Wargrave shatters the morale of the group. If the "god" can die in five minutes, what hope do the old generals and shaky doctors have?
Marston represents a specific type of moral decay. He is the personification of unrestricted privilege. He drives too fast because he can. He drinks because he’s bored. He kills because he’s careless. His death by cyanide—a "choking" death—is a direct irony. The man who lived his life at 100 mph, taking up all the air in the room, is suddenly unable to breathe at all.
How the Adaptations Change Him
It’s kinda interesting to see how different movies handle Tony Marston. Since he dies so early, filmmakers often try to give him more "flavor" so you actually remember him.
- The 1945 Film: He’s renamed Prince Nikita Starloff. Still a reckless driver, but with a Russian aristocrat twist.
- The 1974 Film: He becomes Michel Raven, a singer who ran over people while driving drunk.
- The 2015 BBC Miniseries: This is probably the most "modern" take. Douglas Booth plays him as a drug-addicted, hedonistic brat who is even more loathsome than the book version. In this version, his lack of remorse is front and center, making his sudden death feel like a much-needed cleansing of the house.
What Most People Get Wrong About His Death
A common misconception is that Marston committed suicide. Even the guests on the island think this for a minute. Dr. Armstrong notes that the cyanide was in the glass, and since Marston poured it himself, it "must" have been self-inflicted.
But think about Marston’s character. This is a guy who loves himself. He’s in the prime of his life. He’s looking forward to a week of partying. He would never kill himself over a legal "nuisance" from a year ago.
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His death was the perfect "locked room" setup. Wargrave knew Marston would be the first to grab a drink. He knew Marston was a "gulper," not a sipper. It was a calculated risk that paid off because of Marston's own impulsivity.
Understanding the Order of Death
If you're trying to track the "guilt" levels in And Then There Were None, the order of deaths is your best map.
- Anthony Marston: High recklessness, zero intent to kill, zero remorse.
- Mrs. Rogers: Mostly a bystander/accomplice, plagued by fear and guilt.
- General Macarthur: A crime of passion (jealousy), but he’s already "dead" inside from regret.
- Mr. Rogers: A cold, calculated crime for money, but he remains "the perfect servant" to the end.
The list goes on, ending with Vera Claythorne, who Wargrave considers the most "monstrous" because she knowingly let a child drown for her own gain.
Actionable Insights for Readers and Students
If you’re analyzing Marston for a class or just a deep-dive reread, keep these points in mind:
- Look at his entrance: Contrast his fast car and "roaring" arrival with the silent, slow boat ride the others take. He is "life" personified, making his sudden "death" more jarring.
- The "Amoral" vs. "Immoral" debate: Is Marston evil? Or is he just so detached from reality that he doesn't understand the value of life? Wargrave argues that "amoral" people are just as dangerous as "immoral" ones.
- The Toast: Right before he dies, Marston raises his glass and says, "I’m all for crime! Here’s to it." It’s the ultimate "famous last words" irony.
When you revisit the opening chapters, pay attention to how much space Marston takes up. He’s loud, he’s vibrant, and he’s everywhere. His absence in the rest of the book creates a vacuum that is slowly filled by the paralyzing fear of the remaining guests.
If you want to understand the themes of And Then There Were None, you have to understand Marston. He isn't just a victim; he’s the "canary in the coal mine." His death proves that no amount of money, beauty, or "good luck" can protect you when the bill for your past finally comes due.