"I have no fear of the drowning, it's the breathing that's taking all this work." As it should, my dear.

Chapter Seven: Four Little Indians, Going Out to Sea

Velma stared at her own written words. This was insane. A Bible shoved down someone's throat, she'd written, and look at Sylvester's death. Pages torn from Genesis stuffed into his mouth. It couldn't have been her though; she'd been asleep at the apiary. Unless…

She realized she was biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. Ow. It didn't take long to cross out Sylvester from the list and underline the comment she'd made about the Bible. So. Owen really was a woman. Jennifer, Marianne, Daphne – or herself.

She desperately hoped it wasn't last one.

Brow furrowed, she scrutinized the paper. She was pretty sure that convincing Daphne she was really one of the 'good guys' would allow her to get close enough to observe a possible motive. As for the others? Discovering Sylvester was Marianne's uncle was a strike against that possibility. Surely she wouldn't kill her own uncle.

A little voice in her head sing-songed, But surely a fifteen-year-old wouldn't kill her own parents. "Just shut it," she mumbled at the little voice. "That was four years ago. What's done is done, alright?" The pencil lead broke. Talking to annoying voices in one's head had to be on the same level, if not worse than, talking to small honey-making insects. The logical conclusion that followed was to stop talking to it. At least out loud.

After sharpening her pencil, Velma set to the task of planning out what exactly she could do next. If I were a serial killer, she thought, how would I go about doing this?

She smiled. "That, my dear Watson, is an excellent question. Let's try speculating, shall we?" And if the speculations proved correct she would know it really was her. She flipped to a clean sheet of paper and began to write.

oOo

Jennifer's fingers flicked over her knitting, but her mind was elsewhere. This clearly followed the classic locked-room scenario. Or rather, in this case, isolated island off the southwestern shore of Devonshire scenario. A pity they would all be dead before the police could do anything about it.

"Ouch!" She jerked her left thumb away and sucked at it. What was wrong with her? She'd never pricked a finger with her knitting needles before, and now she stabbed herself in the thumb? "Clumsy, clumsy," she muttered to herself. "It's either your age or the stress that's getting to you. Foolish."

Daphne appeared in the doorway of the sitting room with an odd look on her face. "Jennifer, you haven't been in the dining room, have you?"

"No, why should I have been?"

"As far as I can tell none of us have," the redhead said slowly, "but there are only four Indian boys left in the ceramic piece."

She shrugged, shaking the hand with the injured thumb to rid it of the stung feeling. "Wonderful news, Daphne. I for one had no idea they were going missing."

"But the other two say they haven't been in the dining room either," Daphne started to protest, but Jennifer broke her off.

"Of course they say that. Are you accustomed to a little thing called denial? It's commonly known among the church as a sin by the name of lying. Perhaps you are more familiar with it by that name. No? It's an untruth, dear, a misgiving or specific withholding of information. Lots of people do it." She resumed knitting. "Even I did, at the inquest…"

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Yada yada yada. Yeah, I know. I know what lying is. I just thought maybe –"

" – the figures were getting up and walking off on their own?" Jennifer feigned contemplation. "Oh, yes, that's a marvelous notion! Why don't we test it? That's right, because it isn't possible," she snapped.

She huffed. "I was going to say that you might have seen which of them went in there, but never mind since it's such a ridiculous idea." Having said this, she turned on her heel and left again.

Jennifer scowled down at the knitting. It struck her just then as really quite pointless. She'd never have the chance to give it to her niece, and sweaters weren't particularly helpful when one was dead. Not much was, now that she thought about it. Not even that little jou-

Of course! The journal, she realized, that was how she could ensure that the police would know the truth once they arrived. She dropped her knitting into a tangled mess in the basket. It didn't take her long to bolt herself into her room and begin her search for that book. Now, where did she put it again? The police would want an accurate account, of course, and who better to give one than a victim herself? Yes, yes, this would work nicely. Case solved thanks to helpful journal entries made by goodhearted woman.

As she scribbled down her side of the story, she spoke aloud to herself, reciting verses pertaining to speaking the truth as encouragement. "And because I tell you the truth, ye believe me not."

She stopped. John 8:45 wasn't very encouraging. She wanted them to believe her. Continuing, she racked her brain for other verses.

"Am I therefore become your enemy, because I tell you the truth?"

Galatians 4:16 was out too.

"Ahh – Nevertheless I tell you the truth; it is expedient for you that I go away: for if I do not go away, the Comforter will not come unto you; but if I depart, I will send Him unto you."

Yes, John 16:7 was encouraging. She could only think of that because it had the word 'truth' in it, but the thought of the Holy Spirit coming to her was pleasant.

Another one, quick, she commanded herself. "But I tell you of a truth, there be some standing here, which shall not taste of death, till they see the kingdom of God." A smile stretched her thin mouth. Luke 9:27. Wonderful. Now if only Jennifer Morley could be one of those who would not taste death.

She went on in this way, reciting verses to herself. Some made little or no sense in relation to what she was doing and she merely recited them because they had the word truth in them. When she recited one of those she felt as if she were grasping at straws. Every now and again, though, she would find one that fit brilliantly and made her smile.

It was close to suppertime when she finished her testimony to what was occurring on Manse Island, and in doing so, the poor little journal whose pages she had thoroughly covered. Had it been an animate object with feelings it would have been exhausted from the working it had just received. Since it was not an animate object however, it simply lay there while Jennifer stretched and looked at the clock on the wall. "Goodness," she couldn't keep from saying aloud, "I've been rather busy, haven't I?"

oOo

Marianne had been busy. Since Bradley had died she had been examining the body, outrage boiling under her skin that this man had died this way. He deserved a soldier's death at the very least. But this? This was highly unacceptable.

There were no finger and thumb bruises on the body, unfortunately meaning she wouldn't be able to tell which of the remaining women it was. The Bible pages had most likely been forced into his mouth after he died, raising the question of why Bradley didn't cry out when he was being strangled, using his own shirt collar, no less. Further examination provided the answer. Owen had crept up from behind him, seized the collar of his shirt and twisted it, effectively cutting off both circulation of blood to the brain and blocking the trachea's air supply. A remarkably smart way of asphyxiating him, if also remarkably simple.

Too simple. So simple that it provided no help at all. The question still remained – who was Owen? Any of them could have done it. Bradley, for all his gusto, wasn't good at resisting physical force. His war days were long since past. He wouldn't have been a difficult target to get rid of at all, especially caught unawares from behind like this.

Marianne exhaled, sweeping her blonde hair behind one ear. "Bradley, who killed you?" she murmured as she tucked the sheets of his bed around his overweight body. No, she mentally corrected, his dead-weight body. Taking a step back to admire her handiwork, she thought she heard a noise behind her. Upon spinning around, however, it proved to be a paper she had knocked from the nightstand. She picked it up and smoothed it out. Only his letter of invitation. Oh, Bradley. He always did keep the strangest things with him.

She closed her eyes to keep from remembering. He was gone and that was that. No regrets, no remembering, no feeling, no tag-backs. Now all there was to do was wait on Owen to strike again. So far the only modus operandi they had for her was the rhyme. That told nothing of who the next victim might be, or how it might be committed. The next obviously had something to do with the water, but what?

The nurse smiled grimly. That could only be discovered with the body of whichever poor soul was next on the hit list. A red herring swallowed one, was it? She wondered where the fish in question would leave the bones. Perhaps she had better scout out the shoreline before Owen had enough time to recuperate from the last death.

Poor, stupid Bradley.

Gently closing the door to her uncle's room, she stole down the stairs and crept past the empty sitting room. She cringed when the front door squeaked rather loudly. No. No one was there. Good.

The weather at least was nice, she noticed. Not storming anymore. Still foggy, but at least it wasn't raining and the chill in the air was hardly worth complaining about as she walked. Now, Marianne thought, first things first. Where does the tide bring in the most debris? This answer would require getting down on the beach. With little difficulty she slid down the steep embankment to the beach. There was a section where the water had carved out its own little nook in the sand, where it gathered piles of driftwood, torn fishing nets, pieces of wrecked ships, and other trash that the sea had bestowed on Manse Island. That's where the body will end up, she surmised. Then the murder will take place somewhere around here. Her eyes followed the curvature of the rock. There. On top of Schooner Rock. Since herrings weren't red and generally didn't feed on humans, Marianne supposed that some kind of blood would be used to lure out a shark or two, most likely from the body itself. Then once the sharks had had their fill the body would wash up on the shore, in the sand.

Nobody was around. And there weren't any sharks about. She could take a look. The path to Schooner Rock wasn't well-trodden like some of the others, such as the one down to the jetty, but it was traveled well enough for her climb to be relatively easy. She caught her breath as she stared out at the ocean. It looked so wide, yet the rest of England had to be right there behind the furthermost fog. Funny how shortsighted fog made one.

This was her last thought before something hard crashed down onto her skull.

oOo

Daphne couldn't stop pacing. Something didn't feel right. Something was wrong. But what? Everyone was inside – that was it. She was inside with the killer. That's what was wrong, she seized onto the idea. She just needed some fresh air. The redhead slipped her feet into a stylish pair of purple and grey walking shoes, grabbed a jacket, and hurried out of the games room and the house entirely. The fresh air already made her feel less uneasy. She felt like skipping.

Or she would, if she could feel. That thought made her suck in a breath and continue on her way, head held high. She wouldn't be able to feel after she was dead anyway, so this was good practice, right? At the same time she knew it wasn't. A human being should be able to feel, to experience emotion, even if she has been condemned to death.

Think of something else, Daphne; something happy, quick. Ah – purple. Purple always made her happy. Except when it was the color of Sylvester's face. No, purple wasn't something she wanted to think about right now. She wasn't even sure she wanted to think, now that she considered it. No, no thinking. Just walk.

Right.

Just walk.

She stopped a moment to plan her route. I could go around to the old fishing village and see if the door to the library tunnel is accessible from that end, she thought, then make my way back around and stop by the jetty to see if the ferry master decided to come early. Not that that hope would lead anywhere. She turned on her heel, away from Schooner Rock, and kept going. Just walk, Daphne.

oOo

Marianne roused to half-consciousness when she hit the water. Her hands were knotted behind her back, and her ankles were tied to a stone. I'm going to drown, she thought in panic. She twisted and squirmed in the water, struggling not to give in to the urge to breathe, but she couldn't free herself. The blonde craned her neck upward in a vain attempt at reaching the surface, or at least seeing who Owen was. There was no figure visible through the churning water. She couldn't even see the rock face above her.

Her eyes widened when she could fight it no longer. Mouth opened in defeat, she sucked in the liquid that would destroy her lungs. Memories flooded her mind the same way the seawater flooded her airway to asphyxiate her. She could feel the laryngospasm coming on; unconsciousness couldn't be too far off then.

"Marianne," a voice sang from above her. With her last motion, she turned her head up to see laughing green eyes. "Looks like I'm not the only one to fall from a cliff, sweetheart…"

oOo

Daphne exhaled. The door to the tunnel locked from the inside, so the apparently one could only get to the library from inside the house. That didn't reveal anything new. To her knowledge everyone had been in the house when Sylvester was killed except herself. Velma could have feigned being asleep if she had returned just before Daphne reached the apiary, but she was starting to doubt Jennifer's innocence. The woman was getting incredibly easy to irritate. Because she was getting closer to running out of victims?

As Marianne had said, who knew? Who cared? The only way they would know who Owen was would be when they were dead, since she obviously wasn't going to purposefully slip up and didn't seem to be doing much in the accidental department either. If only one of the other three left had reacted in a way that wasn't just innocent surprise when she'd told about Freddy's body in the screening room! She'd only moved it there for that purpose. But no, not one person had acted like they'd lost control of the situation.

The redhead was nearing the end of her walk now. She could see Schooner Rock up ahead again; now she was close enough to see down to the beach, where there was a collection of driftwood, ship pieces, a dead body – a what?

Heart pounding, Daphne inched down the path to the beach. A sickened moan escaped her when she saw the tell-tale blonde hair partially obscuring a discolored face. The gravelly dirt crunched under her feet as she backed away, slowly at first, then turned and ran back to the house.

The door slammed against the wall. "Marianne's dead!" she cried, trembling.

Jennifer appeared in the hall with an unreadable expression; Velma's footsteps echoing hurriedly on the stairs brought her there shortly after. "What?"

"Marianne is dead," Daphne gulped down air. "Marianne. Is dead. Drowned. Beach down by Schooner Rock. Hurry!"

The three of them scurried down to where Marianne's body lay. Daphne hung back, not wanting to see any more than she already had, but the other two were braver than she was. Jennifer inspected the dead woman's pockets while Velma brushed her wet hair away. "She probably did drown," she said after a moment, "although if this was as recent as we have to assume there's no way to get a definite yes on that, since she's – mmmerr, was – the medical expert."

"The stones attached to her ankles aren't heavy enough to actually have kept her from washing up, just heavy enough to hold her under until she had," Jennifer observed.

Daphne could see that Velma was taking this into account. "So she was probably tossed out a good ways in order to make sure she would be dead before she ended up onshore?" She sounded like a student checking with a teacher to make sure she had the right answer.

Daphne felt sick that they could take this news so easily. Then again, she wasn't particularly sorry herself, so who was she to judge? "Well, don't ask me," Jennifer said, eyebrows raising innocently. "I wouldn't know the first thing about drowning someone."

Velma clamped her mouth shut and went back to studying Marianne's corpse.

Clearing her throat, the redhead suggested meekly, "Shouldn't we get her back inside, to her room?"

They both looked up at her. "Yes, that's a splendid idea," Jennifer said dryly. "Velma, you lift that end and I'll carry this."

Daphne stepped back to let them go first. As they passed, she thought she heard Velma mumbling something that sounded like, "I only zoned out a moment, I couldn't have done anything…" What was that all about, she wondered?

It couldn't be too important, she told herself. Nothing could be too important anymore. That being said, she'd have to try to remember to figure out what it could mean. For now?

They had a body to take care of.

After the second time Velma ran into the door, Daphne offered to take over for her. "Thanks," she said with half a smile. "I'm not the best at walking backwards."

Especially carrying a body, Daphne could almost hear the unsaid addition. She tried not to think about that while she hefted Marianne's stiffening form up the stairs, Jennifer carrying the nurse's legs. Thankfully her bed was still unmade, so they awkwardly shoved her under the sheets and pulled them over her head. Daphne shuddered and averted her gaze from the face before Jennifer covered it.

Marianne's eyes were still open.

Through all that had happened, she hadn't actually seen any of the dead's eyes. Now that she had she knew it was a sight she wanted to never see again. Glassy, vacant eyes staring as if lost in thought – no, she begged herself, stop thinking about it!

After a few moments, Velma said quietly, "At least there aren't any bears on the island that we know of."

"I was a heavy heart to carry; my beloved was weighed down, my arms around his neck, my fingers laced a crown. I was a heavy heart to carry; my feet dragged across the ground, and he took me to the river, where he slowly let me drown." What comes around…