Black sat watching Edward pace the length of the attic. Cullen, meanwhile, had dropped onto a dusty crate in the corner. He looked like a bundle of nerves.

"So we've been wrong all along. Built up a nightmare of superstition and fantasy all because of the coincidence of two deaths."

"And yet, you know, the argument holds. Hang it all, I'm a doctor. I know a thing or two about suicides. Riley Biers wasn't a suicidal type."

Edward was doubtful. "It couldn't have been an accident?"

"With cyanide? Some accident," Black grunted. "About the woman . . . "

"Mrs. Whitlock?"

"Could that have been an accident?"

"In what way?"

Black stared at him. "You did give her something to make her sleep, doc."

"It was a mild dose of Trional. Perfectly harmless."

"Is it possible you gave her too much?"

Cullen got to his feet. "Are you suggesting that I gave her an overdose on purpose?"

Edward, a master of tight places, stepped between Black and Cullen.

"Cut that out. We have to keep our heads."

"I only suggested that he may have made a mistake."

"Doctors can't afford to make mistakes of that kind, flatfoot," Cullen said coldly.

"It wouldn't be the first time, if that record is to be believed!"

The doctor went white in the face. Edward shook his head angrily.

"There's no need for that, Detective. You're one to talk. How did that Crowley get his head bashed in?"

"It's a damned shame that a butcher like you never made it into the back of my paddy wagon, Masen. I'd wipe that smirk off your face."

Now it was the doctor trying to keep two men apart. "Calm down—"

"No," Black spat. "I want to know why he brought a revolver to a social visit."

Edward caught himself reaching behind his back for the weapon. Then he remembered he'd given it to Bella Swan.

"I brought it here because I expected to run into a spot of trouble."

Black's eyes narrowed. "You didn't tell us that last night."

"I allowed you to think that I was asked here like the others. That wasn't true. I was actually approached by a little weasel named James Sunderland. He offered me a hundred dollars to come down here and keep my eyes open."

"Surely he told you more than that," Cullen said.

"The offer was take it or leave it. I was hard up. I took it."

"Why didn't you tell us this before?"

He shrugged. "Better for business if I'm noncommittal."

"And now?"

Edward's face hardened. "Now I believe we're all in the same boat. That hundred dollars was just Mr. Owen's bit of cheese to get me into the trap with the rest of you."

"The trap?"

"Don't you see it? This island is what I call a tight place. First Biers, then Whitlock . . . the figurines disappearing from the table. This is all Mr. Owen's doing, but where the hell is he?"

The gong pealed a solemn call to lunch below.

Whitlock was standing by the dining room door as the trio approached.

"I hope lunch will be satisfactory. There is cold ham, and I've boiled some potatoes. There's cheese and biscuits and some canned fruits for dessert."

"Sounds all right," Edward told him. "Stores are holding out, then?"

"There is plenty of food, sir—of a canned variety. The larder is very well stocked. A necessity on an island where one may be cut off from the mainland for a considerable period."

Edward nodded.

Whitlock was mumbling to himself as he led the three men to the table.

"It bothers me that the boatman has not been over today. It's unfortunate."

"That's one word for it."

"The weather is changing," Ms. Platt remarked as she entered the room. "The wind is quite strong."

Judge Vittori came in next. He walked with a slow measured tread. His eyes flickered between Edward, Black, and Cullen.

"You have had an active morning."

Bella Swan hurried into the room. She was a little out of breath. Edward's eyes went to her pocket, where he knew the gun rested.

"I hope you didn't wait for me. Am I late?"

"You're not the last," Ms. Platt said. "The General isn't here yet."

Those assembled sat down at the table to eat. Whitlock hovered beside the chair meant for McCarty.

"Should I begin serving?"

"General McCarty is sitting by the inlet," Bella explained. "I don't expect he would hear the gong. He's a little vague at the moment."

"I will go down and inform him that the luncheon is ready."

Cullen stood up. "I'll go. I want to check on him, anyway. The rest of you can start without me."

Those remaining at the table found conversation difficult to come by. The gusts of wind battering the house only reminded them of their predicament.

Edward's eyes moved restlessly from one face to the other. He felt the minutes ticking by did not bode well for the other two men.

Bella spoke in a soft voice. "What could be keeping them?"

The butler seemed to be wondering the same thing. His expression became frightened.

"There's somebody running . . . "

They could all hear it now—running feet along the terrace. In that minute, they knew . . . knew without being told . . .

Everyone stood up at the same time. Then Dr. Cullen appeared, his breaths coming in short gasps.

"General McCarty—"

"Dead?" Bella whispered.

"Yes, he's dead."

There was a long pause.

Seven people looked at each other in silence.

The storm broke just as the old man's body was borne in through the door.

The detective, the doctor, and Edward Masen struggled to carry him up the stairs. Bella stood watching before she turned and marched into the deserted dining room.

It was just as they left it. The sweet course stood ready on the sideboard untasted.

Whitlock found her standing by the figurines.

"Oh, Miss, I just came to see . . . "

Her voice was harsh. "Look for yourself, Whitlock. Now there are only seven."

Carlisle stood over the body of General McCarty. His examination was brief.

His conclusion: murder.

The men had laid him on his bed. In death, he looked quite peaceful.

Carlisle found the others assembled in the drawing room.

Ms. Platt was knitting again. Isabella Swan was standing by the window. Detective Black was scribbling in a notebook. Masen was restless. At the far end of the room, Judge Vittori was sitting in one of the armchairs. His eyes were half closed.

Those eyes opened fully when he realized Carlisle was back. Vittori spoke in a clear, penetrating voice.

"Well, Doctor?"

"No question of heart failure or anything like that. McCarty was struck with a blunt instrument on the back of his head."

A little murmur went around the room, but the judge's voice quieted them again.

"Did you find the instrument?"

"No."

"And you're quite sure of the manner of death?"

"Quite."

The judge let out a long sigh. "We now know exactly where we are."

There was no further doubt of who was in charge: Vittori was now presiding over the court of Soldier Island.

"This morning, gentlemen, whilst I was sitting on the terrace, I was an observer of your activities. You were searching the island for an unknown murderer, correct?"

"Yes, sir," Masen said.

"You arrived at the same conclusion that I have: that the deaths of Riley Biers and Mrs. Whitlock were neither accidental nor were they suicides. No doubt you also reached a certain conclusion as to the purpose of Mr. Owen enticing us to this island?"

"He's a madman," Detective Black burst out. "A loony."

"That is almost certain, but it hardly affects the issue. Our main preoccupation is to save our lives."

Carlisle was trembling. He wanted a drink.

"There's no one on the island, judge. No one!"

Vittori gazed at him with all the kindness of a grandfather.

"In the sense you mean, no. I am strongly of the opinion that 'Mr. Owen' is on the island. The scheme appears to be the execution of justice upon certain individuals for offenses the law cannot touch. There is only one way this could be accomplished: Mr. Owen is one of us."

"Oh, no," the Swan woman whispered.

"We are all in grave danger," Vittori continued. "One of us is U.N. Owen. Ten people came to this island. Three—Biers, Whitlock, and McCarty—have gone beyond suspicion. There are seven of us left. One of those seven is the murderer."

"U.N. Owen."

The judge regarded her carefully. "Yes, child?"

"U.N. Owen," Swan repeated. "Unknown."

Carlisle sank onto the couch. He really wanted that drink. But Vittori was still presiding.

"At this moment I wish to establish that we are in agreement on the facts."

"Your argument seems logical," Ms. Platt said. "I agree that one of us is possessed by the devil."

"Masen?"

He was nodding at the judge. "I agree, sir."

Vittori leaned on his walking stick and began to make his case.

"Let us examine the evidence. Is there any reason to suspect a particular person? Detective Black, you seem to have something to say."

"Masen's got a revolver," the detective burst out. "He didn't tell the truth last night. He admitted as much to me and the doctor."

"Is this true?"

Masen relayed the same story from the afternoon. Black was shaking his head.

"There's nothing to corroborate that!"

"We are all in that position, Detective," Vittori said. "There is only our own word to go on."

"I think we can all agree no one should be armed. Surrender your weapon, Masen."

Masen was smiling. "Not a chance."

"I could take it off you!"

"You could try."

The judge held up a hand to silence them. Carlisle was grateful for his presence. He seemed above the squabbling and backstabbing from this crowd.

"Let's come at this another way. Who can we eliminate from our pool of suspects?"

"I am a well-known professional man," Carlisle said quickly. "The idea that I can be suspected of—"

"I, too, am a well-known professional, Dr. Cullen. It proves nothing. Doctors have gone mad before now. Judges have gone mad. So have policemen."

"I suppose you can leave the women out of it."

The judge's eyebrows rose. "Do I understand you to assert that women are not subject to homicidal mania, Mr. Masen?"

"Of course not. All the same, it hardly seems possible—"

Carlisle found himself in the judge's sights again.

"I take it, Dr. Cullen, that a woman would have been physically capable of delivering the killing blow toward poor McCarty?"

"Perfectly capable."

"It would require no undue exertion of force?"

"Not at all."

"The first two deaths have resulted from the administration of drugs. This could have easily been done by a person of limited physical strength."

"I think you're mad!"

Everyone turned to stare at Isabella Swan. She was quivering—not with fear, but with rage.

The doctor resolved to keep a closer eye on this troublesome woman. The female mind was weak and prone to emotional mood swings. Maybe the judge was onto something.

"My dear young lady, please try to restrain your feelings. I am not accusing you. Now . . . Ms. Platt. I pray that you are not offended by my insistence that all of us are equally under suspicion?"

The older woman did not look up at the judge's words. But her voice had dropped to a temperature below freezing when she spoke.

"The idea that I am accused of killing three children of God is quite absurd to anyone who knows of my character. I appreciate the fact that we are all strangers to one another and that in those circumstances, no one can be exonerated without the fullest proof. There is, as I said, a devil among us."

"Then we are in agreement: there can be no elimination on character or position alone."

The discussion moved to their alibis in the murder of General McCarty. Some were alone; others were in groups of two or three. No one remembered checking their watches to determine how much time had passed.

They were no closer to an answer. Eventually the judge rapped his walking stick on the floor.

"I would ask you all to consider the measures we can take for communicating with the mainland. Everyone be on his or her guard. So far this murderer has had an easy task: his victims have been unsuspecting. Forewarned is forearmed. Take no risks and be alert to danger. That is all."

"Do you believe it?"

Bella and Edward were sitting in the library. Outside the rain poured down and the wind howled.

Edward thought for a moment. "You mean, do I believe that old Vittori is right when he says it's one of us?"

"Yes."

"Difficult to say. Logically, you know, he's right. And yet—"

"And yet it seems so incredible."

"The whole thing is incredible. But after McCarty's death there's no more doubt: it's murder. Three murders . . . and counting."

Bella shivered. "It's like some awful dream."

"I know. Any minute now, there will be a tap at the door, and early morning tea will be brought in."

"I wish it could happen like that."

The two sat in silence for several minutes. The tension they felt around the others—the suspects—was not here.

It was the most calm either of them had felt since stepping foot on Soldier Island.

"If it is one of them," she whispered. "Who do you think it is?"

"I take it you aren't counting the two of us," Edward grinned. "Well, that's all right. I know very well that I'm not the murderer, and I don't believe there's anything insane about you. You strike me as being one of the sanest and most level-headed girls I've come across. I'd stake my reputation on your sanity."

"Thank you."

"Come now, Bella. Aren't you going to return the compliment?"

"You did give me the gun," she reminded him. "You don't even know me."

"Maybe I don't," Edward shrugged. "But McCarty didn't die from a gunshot. I'll start suspecting you when it's pointed at my face."

The two laughed for a moment. As if by habit, Edward handed her a cigarette, then lit it. He didn't not light one for himself, content to study her.

Edward watched, mesmerized, as Bella took a drag of the cigarette before passing it back to him.

He liked the idea of their mouths sharing something.

Edward thought she liked it, too.

"Can I ask you something?"

"I'm an open book."

"You've admitted that you don't hold human life particularly sacred. But all the same . . . I can't see you as the man who dictated that gramophone record."

"You're right. If I were to commit one or two more murders, it would solely be for what I could get out of them. Picking people off one by one? Not in my wheelhouse."

Edward flicked the ash into a teacup as he thought. A hint of her lipstick was on his thumb now.

"If we eliminate ourselves and concentrate on our fellow five prisoners . . . with absolutely nothing to go on, I'm thinking it could be Judge Vittori."

Bella was shocked. "Why?"

"Hard to say exactly . . . " Edward was frowning. "But he's an old man who presided over courts of law for years. He's played God Almighty for much of his adult life. That must go to a man's head eventually. He gets to hold the power of life and death . . . maybe his mind snapped. Perhaps he wants to go one step farther than judge and jury. Now, he wants to be the executioner."

"I suppose it's possible."

"Who do you have your eye on?"

Bella answered without hesitation. "Cullen."

This made him laugh. "Why am I not surprised?"

"You could pin everything on him for the same reasons: playing God Almighty . . . being all powerful . . . holding the power of life and death. Why not him?"

"He was the one that found McCarty," Edward murmured, considering her theory. "Gone all that time . . . "

"Don't let him drug me," she said suddenly. "I know his type. He thinks women are beneath him. If he's pushed hard enough . . . "

"I won't let him do it."

"Thank you," she said again.

Edward stubbed out the cigarette. "Now, about that gun."

"Yes, let me . . . "

One hand shot out to stop her. "No. Keep it on you until later."

"Why?"

"Black and Cullen think it's locked in my room," he explained. "I want them to keep on thinking that. If someone comes looking for it, we can narrow our suspects down to those two."

Bella liked how he used we and our. Then she shook her head at her own foolishness.

"I'll come to your room tonight and collect it."

She shivered again at his smile. It was wolfish now . . . and she was that girl with the red hood.

"Don't make me start calling you Mr. Masen again."

"Nothing untoward, I promise. Not until you ask."

Bella blushed.

"Who is it, Detective? That's what I want to know. Who is it?"

Jacob leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, watching the butler scrub the plates from lunch.

"That's what we all would like to know."

"But you've got an idea, Detective. Haven't you?"

"I might have an idea," Jacob said slowly. "But I'm a long way from sure. I may be wrong. All I can say is that if I'm right, the person in question is a very cool customer."

Whitlock was gazing into the suds. "It's like a bad dream."

"Got any ideas yourself, Whitlock?"

"I don't know. I don't know at all. That's what's scaring me to death. To have no idea . . . "

The doctor and the judge were in the drawing room.

"We must get out of here—we must! At all costs!"

Vittori was thoughtful. "I am not a prophet, but I should say it's very unlikely that a boat could reach us—even if they knew of our plight—in twenty-four hours. And that's only if the wind drops."

Carlisle dropped his head in his hands. "And in the meantime, we'll all be murdered in our beds!"

"I hope not," the judge replied. "I intend to take every possible precaution against such a thing happening."

It occurred to Carlisle that an old man like the judge was far more tenacious of life than he would be. Carlisle had often marveled at this fact in his professional career. Here he was, junior to the judge by perhaps twenty years, and yet with a vastly inferior sense of self-preservation.

The judge's thoughts were not as kind.

Murdered in our beds! These doctors are all the same—they think in clichés. A thoroughly commonplace mind.

"There have been three victims already."

"Certainly," Vittori agreed. "But you must remember that they were unprepared for the attack. We are forewarned now."

"What can we do? Sooner or later—"

"There are several things we can do."

Carlisle stared at him. "We've no idea, even, who it can be—"

"As regards to actual evidence, such as is necessary in court, I admit that I have none. But it appears to me, reviewing the whole business, that one particular person is sufficiently indicated. Yes, I think so."

"I don't understand. Do you mean that you know?"

Esme was upstairs in her bedroom.

She took up her Bible and went to sit by the window.

She opened it. Then, after a minute's hesitation, she set it aside and went over to the vanity table. From the drawer she removed a notebook.

Esme opened it and began to write.

A terrible thing has happened. General McCarty is dead. There is no doubt that he was murdered. The judge gave us the most interesting speech. He is convinced the murderer is a guest. That means one of us is possessed by a devil. I had already suspected that. Which of us is it? They are all asking themselves that. I alone know . . .

The old woman sat for some time without moving. Her eyes grew vague and filmy. More words skittered onto the page, written in capital letters:

THE MURDERER'S NAME IS BREE TANNER.

Her eyes closed.

Esme woke up with a start. She looked down at the notebook and cried out angrily. The pencil slashed across the page again and again, striking the sentence she'd written.

"Did I write that? I must be going mad . . . "

The storm increased in ferocity. The wind began to batter the house like a drum.

Everyone was in the living room. They sat together in a listless silence. And, surreptitiously, they watched each other.

When Whitlock brought in the tea tray, they all jumped.

"Should I draw the curtains? It would make it more cheerful."

Whitlock moved at their assent. Then he turned on the lamps, bringing a tiny bit of warmth to the room. A shadow lifted. Surely, by tomorrow, the storm would be over, and the boat would come.

"Will you pour the tea, Ms. Platt?"

"No, you do it, dear. That teapot is so heavy. And I have lost two skeins of my gray knitting wool. Very irritating."

Bella paused at these words before pouring the tea.

The tea had a strangely soothing effect. It was an ordinary afternoon ritual. For a few moments, they could pretend this really was a social visit.

Edward made a joke. Detective Black responded. Cullen told a humorous story. Judge Vittori, who normally hated tea, sipped it approvingly.

Into this relaxed atmosphere came the butler. Whitlock was upset.

"Excuse me, but does anyone know what's become of the bathroom curtain?"

"The bathroom curtain?" Edward asked.

"It's gone, sir. Vanished. I was going round drawing all the curtains and the one in the bathroom wasn't there."

The judge frowned. "Was it there this morning?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"What kind of curtain was it?"

"Scarlet oilsilk, sir. It matched the scarlet tiles."

"And it's gone?"

"Gone, sir."

Edward and Whitlock stared at each other.

The detective was the first to break the silence.

"Well, after all, what of it? It's strange, but so is everything else. Anyway, it doesn't matter. You can't kill anybody with an oilsilk curtain. Forget about it."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

The group watched him until he closed the door. Inside the room, the pall of fear had fallen anew.

Again, surreptitiously, they watched each other.

Dinner came, was eaten, and cleared away. A simple meal, mostly out of cans.

Afterwards, in the living room, the strain was almost too great to bear.

The guests went to bed an hour later. One by one, the bolts slid home.

Jasper, from the dining room where he was setting the table for breakfast, saw them all go up. He heard them pause on the landing above.

His eyes lingered on the seven figurines. A sudden grin transformed his face.

"I'll see that no one plays tricks tonight."

Jasper locked the door to the pantry. He went from room to room on the main level, locking doors as he went. Then he slipped the key into his pocket.

With his work complete, Jasper hurried up the stairs to his new bedroom. The body of Riley Biers was still in the bathtub, where he'd dragged it earlier in the day. He would have to move it to another room tomorrow. Perhaps one of the gentlemen could help him.

"No more tricks tonight," he whispered. "I've seen to that."