"So sleep tonight, but sleep dreamlessly this time; when we awake, we'll know that everything's alright." Because, of course, you'll awake in heaven.
Chapter Two: Nine Little Indians Staying Up Very Late
In the morning Daphne stretched, her long pale arms arcing gracefully over her halo of red curls as she yawned. She'd gone to sleep later than was usual, and as a result it was just past nine when she awoke. The redhead swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, pulling a purple night-robe around her and tying it at her waist. Then Daphne made her way downstairs, trying not to think of Freddy. He had seemed nice enough in the short time she had talked to him, and he honestly had seemed to like her.
"Good morning," she greeted the company in the sitting room. Rogers responded by beginning to hum a Beatles song.
Miss Dinkley nodded a greeting and smiled. "Has anyone seen Mrs. Pickett? I think that as we're all awake now would be a good time for breakfast."
Slowly each admitted that neither Pickett nor his wife had been seen all morning. Miss Morley put down her knitting. "I believe we ought to wait," she declared firmly. "After all, the woman had a dreadful shock yesterday. It's natural she should want to sleep in."
Daphne pondered this. "I don't know about you, but my boss wouldn't care if I was sick with the flu and had to sleep in. What you're saying is, if I'm understanding correctly, that we should let an older woman oversleep when she has a job to do?"
Miss Dinkley started. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"I said, should we let an old woman oversleep when she's on the job?" Daphne repeated herself, slightly irritated. What was so alarming about that? The other girl's eyes widened behind her glasses and her mouth moved in soundless speech.
"I need to check something," the brunette said abruptly, jumping up and dashing out of the room.
"I'll go with her," Rogers was quick to add, hurriedly darting after her. Daphne blinked in surprise, not quite sure what was going through their heads.
"Am I the only one confused by that?" she asked, looking around.
Miss Bower chuckled slightly. "Oh, you aren't the only one. They'll return presently, I'm su–"
A shriek cut off the blonde nurse. Barely two seconds later Miss Dinkley flew into the sitting room, wild-eyed, and nearly pounced on the plaque above the mantle. "There! There!" she cried, dropping to a cross-legged position on the floor and stabbing a finger at the plaque. "The rhyme…it's coming true…" A strange look clouded her eyes and she looked up, saying formally, "Mrs. Dorothy Pickett will not be joining us today, tomorrow, or ever again. She has overslept herself…and now there are eight."
Miss Bower leapt to her feet. "Er, excuse me, Miss Dinkley, but what do you mean by that?"
"She's dead," the girl on the floor responded matter-of-factly. "Owen killed her. Just like he's killed Jones and is going to kill all of us. With the rhyme and the Indians on the table. 'Ten little Indians going out to dine; one choked his little self and then there were nine. Nine little Indians staying up very late; one overslept himself' – herself – 'and then there were eight.' There are now eight." A wild, inhuman grin spread over the thin face. "He's on the island and we get to be killed the way we killed…"
Daphne took a step back. So this was the Velma Dinkley who killed her own parents, and not the quiet, mousy girl from the day before. Scooby trembled. "Rhis is rustice, roming rack to raunt rus all."
Rogers dropped to kneel by Miss Dinkley, looking worried and a little bit nervous. "Velma, try to think about what you're saying. Like, you aren't acting like yourself."
Miss Morley sniffed as if everything were perfectly clear to her. "She's been diagnosed with psychoneurosis. Don't you have some kind of medication that could help in that big black doctor bag of yours, Miss Bower?"
Miss Bower furrowed her brow. "I don't believe so, I'm not authorized to carry much prescription medicine around, but if she's been diagnosed there should be some in her roo– wait a moment, how do you know that information?"
The older woman waved a hand. "Take care of her first, and then I might tell you all." Miss Bower rushed off to obey.
Daphne sat down, watching the younger girl with absurd fascination. I've never seen a mad person before, she thought. How terribly awful that would be…
Miss Bower returned with a small bottle and shook out a couple tablets, handing them to Miss Dinkley, who took them quietly and said nothing. Then the group collectively waited for Miss Morley to speak. "First," she said with an air of schoolmistressy sternness, "if what Velma says is true, and Owen is indeed on the island, then we are all in the same distressing position and thus should be on a first name basis (save the men; I'm not that liberal) to ease social tension. I am Jennifer, you are Marianne, you are Daphne, she is Velma. You are Rogers, you are Sylvester, the dog is…Scooby…the butler is Pickett. Clear?" Jennifer waited for the nods before resuming. "Now, I know about Velma's condition because I worked as secretary at her school before Lady Christine's. She doesn't like to take the medicine – or, didn't in Years Two and Three. That was when her brother's accident was, the mental stress of which caused this."
Daphne saw Velma's jaw set. "I'm right here still, Miss Morley. You don't have to talk over my head."
Jennifer nodded. "My apologies. I take it the medication has set in?"
Daphne suspected it had, and when Velma relaxed and nodded her suspicions were confirmed. The redhead excused herself and made her way into the dining room to see what had thrown Velma out of whack. "Jeepers," she whispered to herself, eyes widening at what she saw.
The centerpiece on the table now had eight little Indians – and two jagged pairs of broken feet. Two little Indians were missing.
The kitchen door swung open, startling her. "Oh, I'm sorry, miss," Pickett said, looking surprised himself. "I didn't expect to see anyone quite yet."
She forced a smile. "Of course, Pickett. Tell me, is…is your wife…dead?"
Shock leapt into the older man's eyes. "I…well, she isn't waking up, that much I know. I was just on my way to request the assistance of our resident medical expert, Miss Bower."
"Marianne is in the sitting room with the others." Daphne turned on her heel and led Pickett back the way she had come. "Mrs. Pickett is not wakening," she announced to them. "Marianne, we'll need a diagnosis."
Marianne inclined her head and scurried after the butler. Velma crossed her arms from her seat in the rocking chair. "She's dead," she stated calmly. "There's your diagnosis. I may be crazy, but I can spot a fellow lunatic when I see one."
Daphne lowered herself onto the couch. Scooby shook his head. "Raybe rhe risn't. Rit right re ra rick."
"Oh, we can but hope," Sylvester said. "We can but hope."
As it were, Marianne returned without Pickett and delivered the news with an unreadable expression. "Mrs. Pickett has left us." Jennifer crossed herself. "Pickett has humbly offered to prepare meals for us. In the meantime, it would appear Velma has been right so far. Any more predictions?" She turned expectantly to Velma.
Daphne wondered if she imagined the uncomfortable look that crossed her face. "Read the rhyme the whole way through," she intervened. "That seems to be the center of it all, modus operandi if you will." Velma shot her a grateful look, and Daphne returned with a friendly smile.
Sylvester lurched to his feet and plodded to the plaque which had been re-hung over the mantle and read it aloud:
"Ten little Indians going out to dine
One choked his little self and then there were nine.
Nine little Indians staying up very late
One overslept himself and then there were eight.
Eight little Indians, travelling in Devon
One said he'd stay there and then there were seven.
Seven little Indians chopping up sticks
One chopped himself in halves and then there were six.
Six little Indians playing with a hive
A bumblebee stung one and then there were five.
Five little Indians going in for law
One got in Chancery and then there were four.
Four little Indians going out to sea
A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.
Three little Indians walking in the zoo
A big bear hugged one and then there were two.
Two little Indians sitting in the sun
One got frizzled up and then there was one.
One little Indian left all alone
He went and hanged himself and then there were none."
Daphne clapped her hands over her ears, wishing she hadn't suggested it. "Oh, it is frightful!"
"Nothing like the taste of sweet decline," Rogers said grimly.
"Obviously some of these might be prevented," Sylvester mused. "How many of us have been to Devonshire outside of the visit to Marwood in order to get here?"
Reluctantly Daphne raised her hand, along with Scooby, Marianne, and Sylvester himself.
"There is no way off this island, save leaping off Schooner Rock with a sheet and attempting to parachute to shore, until the ferry returns Monday morning. So in lieu of this, I suggest those of us who have been to Devon keep mum about it and keep away from Schooner Rock with sheets. The next possibly preventable death is by bee sting. Who is allergic to bee stings?"
Rogers and Jennifer raised their hands. No one else moved.
"Then, you two, we will scout the island for an apiary to keep you well away from. Next we see a fictional fish swallowing someone; who can't swim?"
Marianne and Velma raised their hands.
"Stay away from the ocean. Frizzling, does anyone have sensitive skin?"
Daphne, Jennifer, and Scooby raised their hands.
"Keep indoors. Whoever is last must not hang themselves!" Sylvester ended triumphantly. "We'll foil Owen's nasty plot yet."
"If we're right about his methods, that is," Daphne pointed out.
"True," consented Sylvester. "I propose a group of scouting parties to search the island for Owen. We can go in pairs – I will go with Miss Bower, Scooby can go with Miss Morley, Pickett will be with Miss Blake, and that leaves Rogers with Miss Dinkley."
oOo
Scooby trotted along behind the grouchy woman, sniffing for any unfamiliar scents. He thought he'd smelled Owen back at the house – the scent from the letter, in any case – but couldn't be certain. There were just so many scents that sometimes they all got tangled on the way to his nose.
"Are you smelling anything?" Jennifer asked a bit stiffly. She had been rather put out at being paired with a dog, Scooby knew, but she didn't have to be so distanced.
He shook his head. "Ruh-uh. Rare you reeing ranyrhing?"
"Nothing." She resumed her brisk walk. The two of them had been assigned the southwest side of Manse Island, though so far their search had been fruitless. "What's that?" The question was intoned sharply enough to cause Scooby's head to jerk up. Ahead the faint trail led the way into what appeared to be an old, abandoned fishing village. "Let's take a look at it, shall we?"
"Rokay." Obediently Scooby followed her into the cluster of weathered wooden houses. Grey with age, the only stone seemed to be in their foundations, if they had any. Doors sagged on their hinges, windows cloudy-brown with dust and dirt were shattered, at best riddled with spidery cracks, and the occasional scratched-out phrase on a rock marked a makeshift gravestone here and there. The wind whistled over the crumbling chimneys and effete thatched roofs, many missing most of the straw which once covered them so cheerfully. Scooby pictured children running and laughing with dogs, goats, and chickens everywhere, the place bustling and alive with activity. Now there would be only the lonely wind in that forsaken village. Only the wind and them.
He shivered and hurried along to keep pace with Jennifer. She was a quick old woman, he'd give her that. She seemed unruffled by the emptiness, only pausing every now and then to check in a shadowed window or creaking doorway for signs of Owen. Finding none, she turned back to her companion. "Any whiffs of him as yet?"
"Ri've got rothing," he confessed. He did like the nostalgia permeating the air, however. It felt as if he were backwards in time, pedaling in reverse while everything off the island flowed on around him. It was a wonderful feeling, exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, as if he could float away, lost in time if he didn't work his mind in reverse to remember who, where, when he was. Scooby struggled to bring himself back to the present. Spotting Jennifer some distance away, he set off at a lope to catch up to her straight-backed form.
As they passed the last lonesome, woebegone grey house Scooby looked wistfully back over his shoulder. It did so remind him of storybook nights back in Devon, in his home south of Exeter. He could picture those orphans they read about living in such a place, along with their cruel caretakers and kindly benefactors who came to the rescue. He could see Timothy leading them all…
No! He shook off the painful weight. Jennifer watched him. "You can ignore pain, Scooby," she said quietly. "But only for so long...only for so long..."
oOo
Sylvester adjusted the hat carefully. If a single bee got in and he could bring it back without knowing, and then Rogers or Jennifer could very well be dead by Sylvester's mistake. "Coming, Marianne?"
She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "No thank you, Bradley. I'd prefer to stay right here. How will this help us find Owen, again if you don't mind?"
"It won't necessarily." He licked his lips. "However, honey is always a good thing to have on hand."
"For your sweet tooth?"
"For bribery, my dear," he corrected. "If we have the only honey on the island when the supply Pickett has runs out, why, sugar addicts will be just dying to have some." He chuckled at his own joke.
"That's sick, Bradley," she said disgustedly. "Positively sickening. You do realize Owen could be watching us even now as you scrape honey out of that thing?"
He carefully replaced the bee frame and screwed the lid onto the jar. "If he is, I hope he realizes I've left him none for himself. I suggest we follow the trail further. We may even come across a cave or someplace convenient for Owen to be hiding."
Marianne sighed. "That is what I'm hoping not to find. I'd rather not run into a mad person with murder on the mind."
"Then avoid Miss Dinkley," he advised.
"Bradley! The girl's disorder is a result of severe trauma at an early age. She hardly qualifies as a murdering lunatic like Owen."
"Oh?" Sylvester thought aloud. "Surely it took some logic and planning to off her own mother and father. Some hardheartedness too, I would imagine."
Marianne quieted as they continued down the path, but her eyes did not meet his when she answered. "Didn't we all have to be?"
Blarkett's face leapt into his mind, and Sylvester felt a cold, tight hand grip his throat. "No," he said. "Blarkett wanted Angela. It was only in self-defense that I killed him."
The woman was silent for a moment. Birds chirped nervously as if to fill the silence, and she said softly, "I loved him, you know. Evan. He was everything to me."
Sylvester kicked a pebble and simply said, "If you couldn't have him, nobody could. Am I right?"
"Well enough." After a few more paces she grabbed his arm. "Bradley, what's that?"
He stopped and squinted at the looming dark shape in the fog ahead. "It appears to be another building. Stay here and I will go see what it is."
"No! The next rhyme is 'one said he'd stay there,' remember? I'm going with you," she said stubbornly. He admired that she could think of the rhyme so quickly. She would do well against Owen.
"Alright then, let's go investigate." Sylvester offered her his arm, but Marianne ignored it and set off at a brisk walk. He shrugged. "Suit yourself."
The building turned out to be a shabby, run-down old stable. Sylvester rummaged through every stall, gratefully relieved to find no one. Marianne climbed the ladder just high enough to peer into the hayloft. "Nothing up here," she called down, "except some moldy hay and an old rake. Not nearly enough to hide a person."
"Even Mr. Owen could not have concealed himself in this barn well enough to escape our scrutiny," Sylvester decided. "Beyond this I saw a beach, which is only an open stretch of sand. However, it would be unwise to leave it unchecked. Shall we?"
The blonde nurse nodded. "Yes, Owen could be anywhere." She climbed down and held the door open for him. "Do you believe Owen to be a man or a woman?"
He thought for a moment. "I would say a woman. Both deaths have been poison, correct?"
"Yes."
"And the voice on the phonograph was nearly unisex. In my experience I have only ever known women to be able to perfect such an untraceable voice."
"Then should we call him Ms. Owen?"
"I believe we should keep this to ourselves," Sylvester said, raising a hand to his brow to scan the horizon on the beach. "Owen very well could be as clever as he seems and merely wishes us to believe he is a woman."
"To what end?" Marianne mused aloud.
"Our end," he said gravely. "Our end, and the rhyme's end. For I have a feeling that Owen will not rest until there are none."