The guests sat in small groups, saying little. Everyone was thinking the same thing: where was that damned boatman?
Eventually, Ms. Platt asked Bella to go for a stroll. Bella agreed. Though the two did not say so out loud, they walked with purpose.
The women reached the inlet where they disembarked yesterday in no time at all.
Was it only yesterday? Bella wasn't sure. The hours seemed to be racing by and going slowly at the same time.
There was no sign of the boat.
"The man will get an earful from me when he shows up."
"From me, as well."
The two circled back the way they came. Ms. Platt was frowning.
"I'm very cross with myself for being so easily taken in. I should have known. My expertise is better suited for young girls, not wives."
"What exactly do you do, Ms. Platt?"
"I teach the art of etiquette," she explained. "Social niceties and the like. Mrs. Owen wrote asking for my help."
Bella was toying with a loose thread on her sleeve. "Did you believe what you said at breakfast?"
"Speak up, my dear. Fix your posture. What are you referring to?"
"Do you believe the Whitlocks murdered their employer?"
The women walked in silence until they reached the stone steps. Ms. Platt let out a sigh.
"Personally, I'm quite sure of it. What do you believe?"
"I don't know. But if the recording was right about the Whitlocks . . . "
Then it was right about me, too, she wanted to say.
The women took a pair of seats on the terrace. Soon Ms. Platt had coaxed Bella into holding a skein of yarn while she worked on the other side.
"Some of the accusations are far-fetched and ridiculous. Against the judge, for instance, who was only doing his duty. And the detective. My own case, too."
The knitting needles clicked a few times before she spoke again.
"I wasn't going to say anything last night. It was not fit for gentlemen's ears."
Bella waited.
"Brianna Tanner was in service to me. Very clean and willing to learn. But not a nice girl, as it turns out. I was deceived."
The needles clicked together so fast they sounded like Morse code.
"What happened?"
She made a face. "Bree—Brianna—got herself into trouble. You know, the family way."
Bella could see it in her mind's eye. A young girl going about her duties. Meeting a beau, exchanging stolen glances . . . a drink or two or three . . . people made mistakes . . .
"What happened?" Bella whispered.
"Families hire me to prepare their girls for society. I couldn't have an unwed mother under my roof, what would everyone say?"
"Surely, you could have . . . helped . . . "
The knitting needles went still. "I did help her, Miss Swan. I forced her to take responsibility for her sin. It's not my fault she went on to commit a graver one."
"She committed suicide?"
"Threw herself in the river. Now she's damned forever. Poor dear."
Bella stood up, but the yarn around her fingers prevented her from going anywhere.
"Weren't you sorry? Didn't you blame yourself?"
"Why should I blame myself?" Ms. Platt asked. "Her own choices drove her to it. If she behaved like a decent, modest young woman, none of it would have ever happened."
The older woman's gaze held no self-reproach, no uneasiness. Her eyes were hard and self-righteous.
She was no longer a fussy or ridiculous spinster to Bella.
Suddenly, she was terrible.
Carlisle found Detective Black and Mr. Masen in the dining room. Their eyes were on the figurines that the infernal Miss Swan had been blabbering about at breakfast.
"What are the two of you up to?"
"Plotting."
The detective scoffed at Masen before turning back to Carlisle. "We're strategizing our next move."
"And?"
"It's time to conduct a search," Masen said. "If you're telling the truth, and you aren't responsible for the deaths of Biers and Mrs. Whitlock, then the real killer is somewhere on Soldier Island."
"Of course I'm telling the truth."
Detective Black stood up. "Then come with us."
The three decided to leave Vittori, Whitlock, and the women out of it. McCarty was off doing God-knows-what.
The men set off at a brisk pace. Detective Black seemed on edge, his eyes darting furtively in every direction.
"If only I brought my revolver. Feels wrong not to have it on my hip."
Edward patted his pocket. "Not to worry. I've got one."
Detective Black and the doctor stopped short. "Do you always carry that around?"
"Usually. I've been in some tight places, you know."
"Not as tight as the one you find yourself in today," Black muttered. "If there truly is some lunatic hiding on this island, he's probably got an arsenal."
"You may be wrong there, Detective," Cullen said. "Many homicidal lunatics are quiet, unassuming types. Ordinary folk."
"I can attest to that."
The detective scowled at him. "I'd feel a lot more comfortable if you gave me that revolver, Masen. I'm the one with the proper training."
"Oh, really? How many times have you fired your weapon on the job?"
The doctor stepped between them. "Let's keep going, men. You can fight about the revolver when we find this son of a bitch."
The three set off in a counterclockwise direction. They would end the venture where they began.
But the tour of the island took less time than they thought.
The northwest side had cliffs that fell to the sea below. The three men worked methodically, beating up and down from the highest point to the water's edge, searching for a clue.
There was a shallow cave under what they realized was the rear of the house. It went back twenty feet or so until it was out of reach of the daylight.
It might have been the perfect way to gain entry to the house undetected.
The three considered the possibility of a passage carved into the rock. Someone could have rowed up to the shallows, thrown anchor, and used the cave to get in and out of the house.
In lieu of a ladder, Cullen and Black hoisted Edward up onto their shoulders. But when he smoothed his hand over the surface of the rock, there was nothing there.
"Damn it," the detective hissed. "Where is this lunatic hiding?"
The three ran into General McCarty on their way back to the house.
Edward glanced at the sand. Dozens of footprints told him the general had repeatedly made the same tour of the island as the other three.
It was no wonder he'd skipped lunch.
"Good afternoon, sir."
"Afternoon."
Edward caught the doctor's eye and tilted his head in McCarty's direction. Cullen cleared his throat.
"Are you well, General?"
There was an odd expression on the old man's face. "There is so little time. I must insist that no one disturbs me."
"We won't," Black assured him. "We've been taking a tour of the island, too. Looking for our mysterious Mr. Owen. Have you seen anyone about?"
"You don't understand. You don't understand at all. Excuse me."
The three men watched as the general continued past them, murmuring to himself.
"He didn't look good."
Edward put one hand on his gun. "Let's keep going."
Fifteen minutes later, the men stood at the highest point of the island again, staring in the direction of the mainland. It was barely a spot on the horizon.
"No fishing boats," Edward murmured. "We may have to set up a signal."
"A bonfire?" Cullen asked.
"Fat chance that will do anything," Black groaned. "Does anyone else think this is part of it? The boatman isn't here. He might have been paid to stay away. Who's to say the villagers are going to do anything if we signal them?"
"We searched the cave. Maybe we can search the cliff, too."
"How?"
"I can rappel down the side," Edward said with a sudden burst of inspiration. "The two of you could hold me up with ropes."
The doctor and the detective exchanged a glance. Edward frowned.
"What is it?"
"We can do that . . . " Black hesitated. "If you leave your gun inside the house."
"Am I really going to shoot at the two people holding me fifty feet in the air?"
The two men stared at him in stony silence. Edward sighed.
"Fine, I give. You two go find Whitlock and get the rope. I'll lock the gun in my room."
"How will we know that you've really done it?" Cullen demanded.
"Sherlock Holmes can search me when I get back."
"I'm really starting to like you, Masen."
Bella excused herself from Ms. Platt as quickly as she could.
All she could think about was the late Brianna Tanner. Bree, Ms. Platt called her.
Esme Platt, placid and righteous, had thrown her out in her most vulnerable state.
It was a crime.
Bella could picture the girl's face: pale, puffy, with bracken in her hair.
Her hands shook as she poured herself a glass of whiskey. She had to get a hold of herself. The doctor might look to exploit her distress if she let it take over.
"Bella?"
Only one person in the house called her that.
Edward was standing in the doorway of the drawing room. He was watching her closely.
"Feeling all right?"
Bella shrugged. "As well as I can. You?"
"We need to talk."
She watched him peer out into the hallway to ensure that no one had followed him. Then he shut the door to the drawing room.
Bella expected to feel afraid of the confessed killer, but she wasn't. It was the most peculiar thing.
"Black and Cullen are going to help me rappel down the cliff."
She was astonished. "Why?"
"Looking for Mr. Owen, of course," he said impatiently. "I don't have much time. I need you to hold onto this for me."
Her eyes widened at the sight of the revolver in his hand. He waited, as though expecting more of a reaction from her.
She did not give him one.
"Have you ever handled one of these before?"
She nodded. "My father was a policeman."
The smile she labeled as cruel was back, but it looked different to her in the light of day. Now she thought it seemed playful. Impish.
"Good, so I don't have to worry about you shooting those lovely breasts off."
Her temper flared. "No, you don't."
Edward handed her the revolver, watching as she tucked it into the deep pocket of her skirt.
"Why are you giving it to me?"
"Black and Cullen won't spot me down the cliff unless I lock it in my room."
"So, why are you—"
"You know what I've done."
Bella gulped. She did know.
"I need an ally. I've decided to trust you."
"Why?"
Edward retreated to the door of the drawing room. "Instinct, remember?"
Bella felt a little better with the revolver in her pocket.
She hadn't been completely honest with Edward. Bella had done more than handle a revolver; her father, Charlie, had taught her how to use one.
Charlie also taught her to trust her gut. Bella knew she would give the revolver back when the time came, no doubt about it.
She did not want to be Edward's number twenty-two.
Bella followed the trio out of the house to the terrace. The judge had fallen asleep in his chair. Ms. Platt was still knitting.
Bella waited until the men were gone before walking to the inlet. It was there that she found General McCarty. He stood straight, soldierlike, until the sound of her footsteps reached his ears.
"Ah! It's you. You've come back to me."
"Pardon me, General?"
He gestured to the waves. "I've been waiting."
"For the boat?"
"For you. For my Rosalie."
Bella stiffened. "Who is Rosalie?"
"My darling," he explained, stepping closer to her. "I expected you, at the end."
"The end of what?"
The general blinked. His cloudy eyes cleared and focused on her face.
"Please excuse me, Miss Swan, I've . . . forgotten myself."
Bella remained where she stood. The fear she expected to feel in the drawing room edged into her body now.
"Who is Rosalie?"
The general smiled sadly. "She was my wife. I loved her."
Bella was quiet. It seemed better to let him talk.
"Yes, I loved Rosalie. That's why I did it."
"You mean—"
"Henry Rochester was her lover," General McCarty sighed.
"Emmett McCarty, that you did murder Henry Rochester," the Voice had boomed.
"He was a soldier under my command. Can you imagine? A subordinate bedding his commanding officer's wife. It was an honorable death, probably more than he deserved. I had no regrets at the time."
It seemed like a great relief for him to confess. Bella let her hand rest over the revolver.
"And . . . now?"
The general shook his head vaguely.
"I don't know. It was different then. I don't think Rosalie ever suspected . . . but she was out of my reach when I made it home. Then she died, and I was alone."
"Alone," Bella repeated.
"You'll be glad, too. When the end comes."
"What do you mean?"
But General McCarty had turned back to face the waves again.
As Bella walked away, she heard him whisper that name again. It drifted over her like a sea breeze.
"Rosalie."
Carlisle and the detective grunted as they eased Masen down the side of the cliff. Whitlock only had two pairs of gloves to give them; Black had claimed the larger size for his larger hands.
The doctor was stuck with the dead wife's gloves. It was embarrassing, but there were no other pairs available.
"Do you think he could be behind it?"
"What issue did he have with Biers?" Carlisle asked. "Or Mrs. Whitlock?"
"Right, right."
"Besides," the doctor huffed, as they fed more slack into the rope. "He was proud enough to claim twenty-one victims. What's two more, to a man like him?"
"You're right," Detective Black sighed. "Who do you like for this?"
"My money is on McCarty. We're looking for a madman, and he, well . . . he seems off today."
"Enough to kill?"
"I'm not a specialist in men's neuroses, Detective. But it could be the soldier's blues. A lot of them lost their minds over in France."
The two peered over the side. Masen was moving down the cliff face as deftly as a mountaineer.
"I don't trust him a yard, though."
"Nor I," Carlisle murmured. "Why would he bring a revolver?"
"Old habits, probably. I suppose he's led an adventurous life."
"Holmes and Watson! You can pull me up now!"
The two pulled on the rope until Masen was in their sights. Both men then seized an arm and hauled him up the rest of the way.
"Well," he said. "It's the house or nowhere."
Jacob, Masen, and the doctor decided to search the house next.
It was a modern structure devoid of concealments. The three went through the ground floor first.
As they reached the floor with the bedrooms, Whitlock could be seen on the terrace, running a cocktail to the judge.
Masen was wry. "Wonderful animal, the good servant. Carries on with an impassive countenance."
The search continued in earnest.
The men found the bedrooms empty of hiding places. When they reached the room that housed the body of Riley Biers, a sound behind the door made them all pause.
Jacob elected to go first. He was the policeman, after all.
He flung open the door and rushed in, the other two close behind.
Then all three stopped dead.
The butler was in the room, his hands full of garments.
"Sorry, Whitlock. Heard someone moving around in here."
"Apologies, gentlemen, I was just moving my things. I take it there will be no objection if I move into this room? My wife, she's . . . "
The three looked at each other. It was an odd request. There was a dead body in this room, too.
"Of course," Jacob said at last. "By all means, Whitlock."
The butler left the clothes on the bed, then shouldered past them to bring up more of his belongings.
"He moves so quietly," the doctor whispered, though Whitlock was gone. "We saw him on the terrace only a few minutes ago. None of us heard him come up the stairs."
Masen was staring at something above their heads. Jacob and Cullen followed his pointed gaze.
A string hung from the ceiling. When Jacob pulled on it, a ladder slid down to meet him.
Five minutes later, the three men stood in the attic looking at each other.
They were dirty and covered in cobwebs. Their faces were grim.
There was no one on the island but their eight selves.