The butler started as Edward descended the stairs.
"We expected you a little later, sir. May I show you to the drawing room? Perhaps a drink while you wait for the other guests?"
"Much obliged, Whitlock."
Minutes later, drink in hand, Edward dismissed the butler. He then made himself comfortable in an armchair to enjoy his whiskey.
Before long Edward noticed a framed poster of the nursery rhyme. It was the same one he found in his room.
The sound of approaching high heels told him he was no longer alone.
"Good evening."
"Good evening, Mr. Masen."
Edward smiled as she poured herself a whiskey. He held his glass up in her direction. Miss Swan reluctantly raised hers in return, but continued to stand. Her eyes flickered to the poster.
"There's one in my room, too," Edward told her.
Miss Swan sipped her drink. "Well . . . Soldier Island. A lark, I suppose."
"I have a strong suspicion that our hosts are inclined to whimsy."
"I can't comment on our hosts."
"Good little secretary," Edward offered.
A dark flush bloomed on her face. "Excuse me, Mr. Masen."
Edward stood to block her exit. "Come now, Miss Swan. I believe we've gotten off on the wrong foot."
"I believe that you're lacking in manners. You keep . . . staring at me. It's rude."
That made him laugh. "Maybe so. But I would have been remiss not to stare, Miss Swan. And I don't think you minded it that much."
Edward noticed the glass was trembling in her hand.
It fascinated him. He knew, quite confidently, that she was resisting the urge to throw that drink in his face.
He wondered what it would take to make her unravel.
Miss Swan took a deep breath. The blush on her cheeks faded. In mere moments, she became as chilly as the water surrounding the island.
"Mr. Masen, you seem to be under the impression that I am a particular type of woman. I assure you that I am not. I don't like being looked at."
Edward sipped his drink thoughtfully. Miss Swan was angry with him, but she had not left the room.
"I get instincts about people. I have an instinct about you. I think you're pretending."
"Pretending to be what?"
Loud footsteps cut off his reply. The scamp—Biers—bounded into the room.
"Hello again."
"Good evening," Edward said as he took the armchair.
Miss Swan wandered back to the bottles and spirits. "Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Biers?"
"Riley," he smiled at her. "Pink gin, please."
"How pink?"
"As a virgin's blush."
Edward watched the younger man watch Miss Swan. He didn't like it.
Riley met his eyes and grinned. "Are you a betting man, Masen?"
"It depends."
"That soldier fellow—"
"General McCarty."
"General McCarty, right. At some point this evening, he'll ask us what we did in the war. Those types always do. Well, not me, but you. And then he'll ask us both if we're ready to do our duty next time. Not that there's going to be a next time."
Edward smiled back. This Riley was young in more ways than one.
"There's always a next time."
Riley folded his arms behind his head. "So, how about it? A bet."
Edward's eyes flickered to Miss Swan, who was closer now. She handed Riley his drink.
"The odds are too short."
"As you will, Masen," Riley shrugged. "Maybe you're right. These old farts really believe they still mean something. As if anyone would care if they just . . . "
He snapped his fingers. Edward and Miss Swan looked at each other, then at Riley.
"I'm going to be exceptionally charming to them. See you both at dinner."
Miss Swan took the armchair opposite Edward. Her gaze was fixed on the whiskey.
"All right, Miss Swan. I give. If it will make you happy, I'm sorry for staring at you."
Her eyes went white hot. No trace of ice, all fire and fury. Edward felt his heart skip a beat.
"Mr. Masen, I doubt you're ever sorry for anything."
She stood, placed her glass on the table, then swept from the room.
"Smart girl," he murmured.
The guests were invited to seat themselves for dinner.
Bella chose the place between the judge and Jacob Black. Dr. Carlisle Cullen, the last guest to arrive, sat to Mr. Black's left.
Across the table, Mr. Masen was seated beside Riley. Ms. Platt sat between him and General McCarty.
Bella was grateful for this arrangement. Mr. Masen was far enough away that they could not easily engage in conversation.
It was then that she noticed the glass figurines at the center of the table.
Bella recognized them as the ten little soldiers. Each stood in a circle facing the guests. All of the soldiers were misshapen and bizarrely posed. There was no way to discern the weapons they held or the expressions they wore.
Bella couldn't help but study them through dinner. They held a strange power over her.
The food was surprisingly good. The wine was perfect. Whitlock managed them all well, just as his wife predicted.
Dr. Cullen and Riley were listening to the judge recount his most famous cases. Ms. Platt chatted with the general; apparently the two had mutual friends.
Bella asked Jacob about his profession and learned that he was an importer.
Edward Masen mostly listened to the conversations happening around him. Now and then his eyes would meet Bella's, but he watched everyone else in equal measure, as though searching for something.
Riley noticed Bella staring at the figurines. "Quaint, aren't they? Soldiers for Soldier Island."
"Ten," Bella nodded. "Like the nursery rhyme in my room."
"In my room, too," Masen said.
"And mine."
It became apparent that everyone had a copy. Bella smiled.
"It's an amusing idea, wouldn't you agree?"
Judge Vittori reached for the port. "Remarkably childish."
Riley turned to the butler, who had been standing silently in the doorway.
"Whitlock, be sure to tip the boatman when he arrives tomorrow morning. Ask him to keep an eye on my car. It's the Mercedes parked by the harbor."
"Of course, sir."
Dr. Cullen lowered his fork. "The Mercedes? That's your car?"
Riley was beaming. "Isn't she a beauty? I honestly can't imagine loving a person as much as I worship and adore the Mercedes."
"You ran me off the road."
"No, I didn't."
"You ran me off the road," Dr. Cullen repeated.
All of the other conversations ground to a halt. Everyone stopped talking to listen to their rising voices.
"When?" Riley asked.
"I was minding my own business and you overtook me, going God knows how fast. You ran me off the road!"
There was a grin on the younger man's face now. "I remember someone going at a pitiful speed—"
"You ran me off the road!"
"I might have overtaken you, but my great-aunt drives with more zip. If you can't control your car then you really shouldn't be behind the wheel."
Bella flinched as Dr. Cullen flung his utensils on the table.
"You insolent creature! You run me off the road and have the temerity to tell me it's my fault?"
"Careful, old boy," Riley smirked. "Going a bit red in the face there—"
A thunderous bang silenced them all. Vittori had thrust his walking stick into the floor with all the authority of a gavel in a courtroom.
"Gentlemen, please. We are not animals. Stop shouting at once. There are ladies present."
"Thank you, Judge," Ms. Platt murmured.
The general cleared his throat. "I think the best remedy here is an apology and a handshake. Go on, lads. Put it behind you."
The two mumbled their apologies and shook hands for the briefest of moments.
Bella wanted to snort. She had seen more sincerity from her students after a competitive tennis match.
Whitlock cleared the plates before passing cigars around to the men.
Bella and Ms. Platt excused themselves to the drawing room.
"Quite a lot of excitement for one night."
Bella shrugged. "Men. And they call us the weaker sex."
"Now, now, Miss Swan," Ms. Platt chided her as they sat down. "You'll never get a husband with that sort of attitude."
Bella wanted to point out the absence of a ring on Ms. Platt's finger. The arrival of the coffee saved her from answering.
"Excellent dinner, Mrs. Whitlock," Ms. Platt told her. "The Owens are lucky to have you. I shall certainly be telling them so."
Mrs. Whitlock trembled with emotion. "Thank you, madam."
"I'll pour the coffee," Bella assured her. "You must be very busy in the kitchen."
"My thanks, miss."
Ms. Platt watched her go. "Poor dear. What frightens her so?"
"I had a student just like her," Bella said as she filled both of their cups. "Words of encouragement like yours do wonders for the confidence."
"Are you enjoying your work? It's not a very good school, I'd imagine."
Bella bristled. "What makes you say that?"
"If it was, you wouldn't be needing summer employment. The pay isn't high enough."
Ms. Platt pulled out her knitting. Her expression became thoughtful as she regarded the younger woman more closely.
"Not that I disapprove of you seeking employment and being busy, dear. Far from it. You are clearly competent and intelligent. But why would you teach in a third rate establishment producing third rate girls with third rate educations?"
"Those girls need someone like myself. Someone who has been . . . discounted. A woman that can sympathize with their circumstances."
"It seems almost willfully obstinate to sell yourself so short—"
The door opened then as the men joined them in the drawing room. Bella stood up to allow someone else to take her seat. She had had quite enough of Ms. Platt's scolding.
It was more than that, though.
Bella wanted to shove one of those knitting needles into Ms. Platt's neck.
That would shut her up.
Whitlock moved around the room with the coffee tray. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Then, just the hands of the clock arrived at twenty minutes past nine, the Voice spoke.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Silence, please!"
Everyone was startled. They looked around—at each other, at the walls. Who was speaking?
"You are charged with the following indictments."
The Voice seemed to be coming from every corner and alcove.
"Carlisle Cullen, that you did murder Vanessa Wolfe."
Dr. Cullen leapt to his feet. "What in the heavens—"
"Esme Anne Platt, that you did murder Brianna Tanner."
The older woman's knuckles went white around her knitting needles.
"Jacob Black, that you did murder Tyler Crowley."
"Isabella Marie Swan, that you did murder Colin Brady."
Bella put a shaking hand to her mouth.
"Edward Anthony Masen, that you did murder twenty-one men."
All eyes went to the leonine Mr. Masen, who shouldered out of the room. A heartbeat later, everyone else was at his heels.
The disembodied Voice continued its chant.
"Emmett McCarty, that you did murder Henry Rochester."
There was no one in the library, living or dining rooms. Masen threw open the door to the servants quarters and disappeared down the stairs.
"Riley Biers, that you did murder Alec and Jane Fulton."
"I've never heard of them!" Riley protested.
"Jasper and Alice Whitlock, that you did murder Shelly Cope."
By the time everyone reached the lowest floor, Masen had kicked in a door at the end of the hall.
"Aro Vittori, that you did murder Liam Kincaid."
The judge's eyes narrowed at the words.
"Prisoners at the bar, how do you plead?"
The last echoes of the Voice faded away.
Masen had found the source of the Voice at last: it was coming from inside a locked closet. But rather than a person speaking into a microphone, the Voice had come from a gramophone. It was an old fashioned type with a large trumpet attached.
Bella's eyes followed the gramophone's cords until they reached a wall, where three holes had been bored through them. Someone had taken the time to install a speaker system.
That explained how the Voice had been projected through the entire house.
Masen replaced the needle and the Voice spoke again.
"You are charged with the following indictments—"
"Turn it off!" Ms. Platt cried. "Turn it off, it's horrible!"
Masen obeyed. There was a moment of petrified silence before someone screamed.
Masen was the first to move again. He flung open the kitchen door to reveal Mrs. Whitlock, who was crumpled in a heap on the floor.
"Biers."
Riley sprang to help him. The two men lifted Mrs. Whitlock and carried her into the tiny bedroom off the kitchen.
Dr. Cullen followed them into the room. "It's nothing. She fainted. She'll come round in a minute."
Murmuring amongst themselves, the guests left the doctor to tend to the Whitlocks.
Bella fell into step with Masen on the way back to the drawing room.
In the commotion with Mrs. Whitlock, she didn't realize the man had gone back to retrieve the record from the gramophone.
That cruel, crooked smile appeared on his face.
"It's called Swan Song."
Bella shivered.
The guests spread out in the drawing room. It was a pale echo of the scene just minutes before, but this time, no one was smiling.
Everyone turned at the sound of the door. Dr. Cullen and Whitlock were back, looking grim.
"Is Mrs. Whitlock all right?" Bella asked.
"She'll be fine. I've given a sedative for her nerves."
"What the devil is going on here, Whitlock?" General McCarty boomed.
The butler withdrew a set of typed instructions from his pocket. "We were told it was to be a surprise, like a party game."
"Some game," the doctor snapped.
"Perhaps Mr. Owen is playing a practical joke on you all."
Judge Vittori frowned. "So you think it's a joke, do you?"
"What else could it be, sir?"
"At this moment I'm not prepared to give an opinion."
"But Whitlock was in the room with us—"
"There's a delay on the record, General," Masen murmured as he poured himself a drink. "Someone went to a lot of trouble and expense for a party game."
The older man was fuming. "This whole thing is preposterous! Slinging accusations about like this! Something must be done about it. This Owen fellow, whoever he is—"
"That's just it, who is he?" Ms. Platt asked.
The judge spoke as if from the bench. "That is exactly what we must find out. Who is this Mr. Owen, Whitlock?"
The butler stared at him. "He owns the place, sir."
"I am aware of that fact. I want you to tell me what you know about the man."
Whitlock shook his head.
"I can't say, sir. I've never met him."
There was a faint stir in the room.
General McCarty was aghast. "You've never met him?"
"No, sir. My wife and I were engaged by the post, through an agency."
"Me, as well," Bella whispered.
"Have you got that letter?"
"The letter employing us?" Whitlock asked. "No, sir. I didn't keep it. If I had known what was on that record, I never would have been a part of it. The claim about me and Mrs. Whitlock is a vicious lie."
Jacob Black folded his arms across his chest. "Nothing in it, then?"
"None at all, Mr. Black. Mrs. Cope was like family to us."
"Black," Masen said suddenly. "You're that policeman."
"I don't know what you're—"
"Yes, I remember now," Masen smiled. "Crowley was slinging dope to cops. Was he getting in the way of your so-called importing business?"
"Crowley was a degenerate," Jacob snarled. "I was the arresting officer, but what happened after that has nothing to do with me. That was years ago. I'm a detective now."
The judge placed a warning hand on the younger man's arm. "All part of the job, Detective Black. If we're really opening this door, Liam Kincaid was guilty. I was party to evidence that was not admissible before the court. But he was guilty and I declared him as such."
Masen and Detective Black were glaring at each other. The doctor cleared his throat.
"Vanessa Wolfe was my patient. It was a risky surgery. Everyone knows that going in, but the minute something goes wrong, they blame the surgeon."
"No one can blame you for that, Doctor," Ms. Platt said quietly.
"Well, someone is!"
Judge Vittori's eyes landed on Emmett McCarty. "General?"
"Henry Rochester was one of the finest young officers under my command. He died defending his country. This allegation is an insult to his memory and my military service."
Bella pressed her palms flat to her skirt.
"Colin was my charge," she whispered. "I was his nanny. He wasn't supposed to swim, but he snuck off when I wasn't looking . . . I nearly drowned trying to save him."
"Nobody is accusing you, Miss Swan," the judge said kindly.
Masen coughed a laugh. "So you're all innocent, then?"
"Of course," Detective Black snapped. "Everything on that record is a lie."
"Well, it was spot on about me."
"I beg your pardon?" Judge Vittori asked.
"I plead guilty, if it pleases the court."
A shocked silence fell. Masen lit a cigarette, enjoying their reaction. It was a moment before anyone spoke.
"Twenty-one men?"
"None that didn't deserve it," Masen smiled at Bella. "Rapists . . . murderers . . . dirty cops."
"How can you be so callous?" Ms. Platt demanded. "What are you, some kind of vigilante?"
"For the right price."
"You're a butcher," the general spat.
"Thousands of dead Krauts versus my little twenty-one—"
"Thousands of dead Krauts so that men like you can sleep soundly at night!"
"Enough!"
The judge's cold command stilled them all. Even Masen's smile died on his face.
"I don't see what good arguing can do. My suggestion is that we should retire for the night and be ready for the boatman tomorrow."
"And if the Owens are with him?"
"We confront them, but we leave. It's clear that despite Mr. Masen's devastating confession, we are all the victims of a malign hoax. We should not dignify these accusations with further debate."
There was a murmur of agreement in the room. Then Riley Biers scoffed.
"Alec and Jane Fulton. They must have been those two kids."
"What's that, Mr. Biers?"
Riley was pouring himself another cocktail. He looked unsteady. It was obvious that his relative silence in the past few minutes had been an opportunity for him to continue drinking.
"What sort of parents let their kids play out in the dark, anyway? Completely irresponsible. I lost my license for six months after that. What a nuisance."
It took a beat for his words to land with the others.
"Those poor dears," Ms. Platt whispered.
"Are we quite sure that record had the names correct? Maybe our friend Mr. Owen mixed up Biers and Masen."
Riley rolled his eyes at the doctor. "I wasn't even going that fast. Beastly bad luck."
"For them or for you?"
Riley's smile faded. Then the glass slipped from his hand and shattered.
"What's the matter with him?"
Riley clawed at his throat. His face was turning purple. The entire party leapt to their feet in horror.
Detective Black went to Riley and slapped him on the back, hoping, perhaps, to dislodge whatever he was choking on. Riley shoved away from him, holding his throat with both hands.
Blood bubbled from the corners of his mouth. Ms. Platt screamed as Riley swayed and collapsed onto the floor.
Dr. Cullen knelt and turned the younger man onto his side. Blood was spreading like an oil stain across the parquet floor.
Riley twitched once, then went still.
Dr. Cullen leaned down to listen for breaths. Then he put two fingers to Riley's neck.
"My God," he whispered. "He's dead."