In the corner of the smoking carriage, Judge Aro Vittori, lately retired from the bench, puffed a cigar and browsed the front page of The Seattle Times.
He glanced at his watch. Two hours of the journey remained.
Aro reviewed what he knew about Soldier Island: it had been originally purchased by a lumber magnate who was crazy about sailing. His poor sailing skills led to both the island and the house he built being put up for sale.
The new owner was a man named Mr. Owen.
Aro withdrew a letter from his pocket. It requested his attendance to Soldier Island, to recall the old days with an old flame.
Meanwhile, in the third-class carriage, Miss Isabella Swan leaned her head back against the seat and shut her eyes.
Bella was looking forward to time away after a stressful spring term.
Summer secretarial posts were almost impossible to get, but the letter from Una Nancy Owen to the staffing agency had been so timely. The return address on the envelope was stamped Soldier Island.
All the magazines said that Tanya Coleman, Hollywood's biggest starlet, had been outbid in the sale of the island.
Bella sympathized with Ms. Coleman. She knew how it felt to be passed over.
She had been lucky to get this job. Though the coroner's inquest acquitted her in the death of Colin, Bella thought of him often.
Colin's head, bobbing up and down, swimming to the rock . . . Bella, cleaving through the water after him, but knowing, only too surely, that she would not be in time . . .
Bella opened her eyes and frowned at the man sitting opposite her. She could tell he was tall because their knees were almost touching.
The man's green eyes flickered to the tops of her stockings. Lost in her daydreaming, she hadn't noticed that her skirt had rucked up. Bella pulled it down in embarrassment, blushing.
His mouth twisted into a crooked—almost cruel—smile.
Edward Masen, summing up the girl opposite with him, thought: Quite attractive—a bit schoolmistressy, perhaps.
He thought she looked like a cool customer. One who could hold her own, in love or war. He thought about what it would be like, to take her on . . .
Edward cleared his throat. There was no time for that. This trip was all business. He would have to keep his mind on the job, though he still wasn't sure what exactly the job entailed.
That little man had been so damned mysterious.
"Take it or leave it, Mr. Masen."
"A hundred dollars?" Edward repeated.
He had said it as though a hundred dollars meant nothing to him. Nothing, when he was literally down to his last square meal.
"And you can't give me any further information?"
James Sunderland had shaken his head.
"No, Mr. Masen, the matter rests there. Your reputation is that of a good man in a tight place. I've been empowered to give you one hundred dollars. In return, you will travel to Soldier Island. There you will hold yourself at the disposal of my client."
"For how long?"
"No longer than a week at most."
Edward smoothed his tie. "You understand I can't undertake anything illegal?"
"If anything illegal is proposed, you will, of course, be at perfect liberty to withdraw."
Edward's lips parted into a grin.
Further down the train, in a non-smoking carriage, Ms. Esme Platt sat very upright, as was her custom. She was sixty-five and did not approve of lounging. Her father, a military man, had been most particular about posture.
Enveloped in an aura of righteousness and unyielding principles, Esme triumphed over her fellow passengers, even if they did not know it.
The present generation was lax about the important things. Manners and elocution were quickly falling out of fashion with the younger set. It was a shame.
Her lips set into a firm line. She liked to make an example of people.
One gloved hand held the letter inviting her to Soldier Island. Her reputation in the art of etiquette was growing, even if the upper class women weren't interested.
The wives of the new money would suit her just fine. They paid better, anyway.
The letter admitted Mrs. Owen missed the window to attend finishing school, but was eager to learn, as a season of society events and parties was about to commence.
Esme Platt was happy to be of service.
General Emmett McCarty looked out of the carriage window and sighed. He hated trains.
Emmett didn't know much about this Owen person. A friend of Paul Lahote's, apparently, and keen to profile General McCarty's illustrious war career.
He was looking forward to speaking with Mr. Owen. It had been years since anyone had given Emmett proper thanks for his service. All owing to that damned rumor! Three decades and it was still following him around. All because of Private Ben Cheney.
Soldier Island, indeed. Gossips said that the military wanted to get their hands on it, but the free market won out, in the end.
Emmett couldn't wait to get there.
Miles away from the train, Dr. Carlisle Cullen was driving to the boat launch.
Carlisle was very tired. Success had its penalties. There was a time when he sat in his consulting room downtown, waiting for his venture to succeed, or fail . . . he had been lucky!
Lucky and skillful, of course.
An accurate diagnosis, a couple of grateful female patients—women with money and position—and before long the word had gotten out.
"You ought to try Cullen—quite a young man—but so clever!"
Carlisle's days were full. He had little room for leisure. And so, on this August morning, he was grateful to be leaving the city for a few days.
It wasn't exactly a vacation. The letter he received was vague, but the accompanying check had been just the ticket. These Owens must have been rolling in money.
All for a little batch of nerves. These women and their nerves! But it was good for business, so Carlisle didn't complain.
His luck had nearly run out fifteen years back. It made him cut out the drink altogether.
An earsplitting blast on a horn jerked him out of his reverie. Carlisle glanced in the rearview mirror and cut the steering wheel hard to the right. A Mercedes rushed past him.
"You stupid bastard!" Carlisle yelled.
Young fools and their cars.
Carlisle hated them.
Riley Biers roared down the road.
He considered stopping for a ginger beer. It was a fizzing hot day.
Soldier Island would be fun, if the weather held out.
These Owens promised him a good time. The invitation had arrived on expensive paper with pictures of expensive parties.
Nouveau riche, of course. It was a pity that Tanya Coleman lost out on the auction. Riley would have enjoyed socializing with the Hollywood crowd.
There would be other girls, he supposed. Several watched him climb into the Mercedes this morning.
Riley had smiled, revved the engine, and sped away.
There was just one other passenger in Detective Jacob Black's compartment. He was an older man and thankfully asleep, which allowed Jacob to work without interruption.
Jacob was writing in a little notebook.
"Ms. Esme Platt," he murmured. "Miss Isabella Swan, Dr. Carlisle Cullen, Mr. Riley Biers, old Judge Aro Vittori, Mr. Edward Masen, General Emmett McCarty. The butler: Mr. Jasper Whitlock. The cook: Mrs. Jasper Whitlock."
Jacob closed the notebook and put it back in his pocket.
The old man woke up with a start. Jacob smiled at him, but the man shivered as though waking from a nightmare.
Jacob shivered like that, once upon a time. But that was all behind him now.
"There's a storm coming."
Jacob looked at the cloudless sky. "I think you're mistaken."
"No! I can smell it."
"Maybe you're right," he offered.
The old man rose unsteadily to his feet as the train approached the next stop. Jacob helped him to the door.
When he was safely off the train, the man turned back to Jacob.
"The day of judgment is very close at hand."
He's nearer to the day of judgment than I am, Jacob wanted to scoff.
But a flicker of unease went through him nonetheless.
"You're for Soldier Island?"
The driver had addressed Judge Vittori as the senior member of the party. The old man nodded.
"There are two taxis here, sir. One of them must remain behind for the passenger on the next train. Perhaps some of you wouldn't mind waiting?"
Bella, with her own secretarial position on her mind, spoke at once.
"I'll wait," she said. "If you will go on?"
She had looked at the other three, her glance and voice holding the slight suggestion of authority. She might have been directing which tennis sets her students were to play in.
"Thank you," Ms. Platt said stiffly.
Judge Vittori followed her with a nod.
"I'll wait with Miss—"
"Swan," Bella said.
"My name is Masen, Edward Masen."
The two stood a few feet apart to await the final passenger. Bella put a cigarette between her lips.
The man named Edward produced a lighter and stepped closer to light the cigarette. The two stared at each other until the flame took hold.
She thought his eyes glittered like emeralds. They lingered on her as she smoked.
"Do you know Soldier Island well?"
"No, I've never been here before," Bella said. "I haven't even seen my employer yet."
"Your employer?"
"Mrs. Owen's secretary took ill. She wired an agency for a substitute, and they sent me."
Mr. Masen thought for a moment.
"What if you don't like the post?"
"It's only temporary. I've got a permanent job at a girls' school."
Those emerald eyes glittered with malice now. "Are you a strict mistress?"
"When necessary," Bella said coolly. She did not like the implication in his tone.
The train whistle in the distance told them the final passenger wasn't far behind.
Bella wanted him to hurry. This Masen character was making her nervous.
"Have you met the Owens? What are they like?"
Edward didn't know if this information was part of his cover. Sunderland made no mention of it.
Better to avoid answering her altogether.
"There's a wasp crawling up your arm. No—keep quite still."
Edward made a convincing pounce for the pest. He held onto her arm to steady himself, enjoying the warmth of her skin under the fabric.
"There, it's gone."
Bella cleared her throat. "Thank you."
They were soon joined by General Emmett McCarty. After introductions were made, the trio climbed into the taxi. Bella held onto the hem of her skirt as they drove, all too aware of the green-eyed gaze on her legs.
The taxi came over a steep hill. It was there that the three had their first glimpse of Soldier Island as it jutted up out of the sea.
"It's a long way out."
Bella had pictured Soldier Island to be closer to shore, crowned with a beautiful white house.
The island that was to be her temporary home seemed . . . sinister.
The judge, Ms. Platt, and a man they had not yet met were waiting for them. The man introduced himself as Jacob Black.
The boatman—a man named Max—informed everyone they were to depart immediately. Two more gentlemen were coming by car, but would arrive later that afternoon.
They were just settling into the boat when a car thundered down the road. At the wheel sat a young man with his hair blown back by the wind. Riley Biers hurried to join the group.
All present excused his tardiness due to his youth.
The boatman pushed away from the shore and in the direction of Soldier Island.
The house came into view some time later. It had lived up to the breathless reporting. All found the place to be very modern looking with plenty of windows.
Max nosed the boat into a natural inlet between rocks.
"Must be difficult to land here in bad weather."
The boatman smiled at Edward. "Can't land when there's a storm, sir. Sometimes the island is cut off for a week or more."
Edward and Max jumped out first to help the others disembark with their luggage.
The former held onto Bella for a moment too long. Decorum forced her to frown at him, but to her secret shame, she didn't mind his touch in the slightest.
The group took their luggage up a stone staircase. The butler was waiting for them on the terrace.
"Welcome to Soldier Island," the butler said. "My name is Whitlock. Will you come this way, please?"
The interior of the house was fit for a king.
Parquet floors gleamed in every direction. Surfaces sparkled in the afternoon sun. Bottles of liquor and other beverages sat waiting for them in the drawing room.
Riley felt his spirits rising at the sight. He was so focused on what cocktail to start with that he almost missed the butler's words:
"Mr. Owen—unfortunately delayed—is unable to get here until tomorrow. Allow me to show the gentlemen to your rooms. Mrs. Whitlock will take the ladies."
The group obediently separated themselves at his instruction.
"Dinner will be served at eight o'clock."
Mrs. Whitlock led Bella and Esme up the stairs first. The bedroom meant to Bella's had two large windows facing the sea.
"I hope you have everything you want, Miss?"
"Yes, thank you."
Mrs. Whitlock's voice was flat. "Do ring if you need anything."
Bella looked at her curiously. It felt as though the other woman was trying to avoid direct eye contact.
"I'm Mrs. Owen's new secretary. I expect you know that."
"No, Miss, I don't know anything. Just a list of the ladies and gentlemen and what rooms they were to have."
"Mrs. Owen didn't mention me?"
Mrs. Whitlock shifted uncomfortably. "I haven't seen Mrs. Owen yet. My husband and I arrived two days ago to set up the house."
Bella soon realized that they were the only staff on the island. Odd.
"Can you manage all of us? Just the two of you?"
"Oh, yes, Miss, I can manage. If there's to be large parties often, perhaps Mrs. Owen could get extra help in."
Left alone, Bella went to the seat by the window. She was disturbed.
Everything about this situation was strange. The absent Owens, the frightened Mrs. Whitlock, and the other guests.
Edward Masen, in particular, made her feel . . . off center.
Bella stood to examine the room. It was beautiful and modern, just like the rest of the house.
Her eyes landed on a sculpture of a bear on the mantelpiece. A clock had been installed at the base of the bear sculpture.
Over it, in a gleaming chromium frame, was a square piece of parchment. It was a poem.
Bella remembered the nursery rhyme from childhood:
Ten little soldier boys went out to dine;
One choked his little self and then there were nine.
Nine little soldier boys sat up very late;
One overslept himself and then there were eight.
Eight little soldier boys searching for a weapon;
One said he'd stay there and then there were seven.
Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks;
One chopped himself in halves and then there were six.
Six little soldier boys playing with a hive;
A bumblebee stung one and then there were five.
Five little soldier boys going in for law;
One got in Chancery and then there were four.
Four little soldier boys going out to sea;
A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.
Three little soldier boys walking in the zoo;
A big bear hugged one and then there were two.
Two little soldier boys sitting in the sun;
One got frizzled up and then there was one.
One little soldier left all alone;
He went and hanged himself and then there were none.
She chuckled to herself. Of course. This was Soldier Island, after all.
Bella returned to the window seat. The ocean was peaceful today, but it could be deadly. The waves dragged one down to its depths.
Drowned . . . found drowned . . . drowned at sea . . .
Bella shook her head. She would not think of it.
Carlisle reached the island by sunset. He chatted with the boatman on the way, but didn't learn much about the Owens.
He was very tired. A long vacation sounded perfect, but he couldn't afford that. Finances were one thing, but reputation was another. Good doctors cultivated their patients from the cradle to the grave.
He would have to keep his nose to the grindstone.
Carlisle thought there was something magical about an island. The word itself suggested fantasy.
An island was a world of its own.
The doctor was smiling as he walked up the rock cut steps.
An older gentleman was nursing a drink on the terrace. Carlisle paused for a moment. Those pale, shrewd eyes looked familiar.
Of course! It was the famed Judge Aro Vittori. Carlisle had testified before him twice.
Vittori held great power over a jury. He could make their minds up for them on any day of the week.
A hanging judge, some people said.
Funny place to run into him, Carlisle thought.
Aro recognized him, too. He recalled Dr. Carlisle Cullen as a confident witness before the bench.
Quite unusual for most men of that profession, Aro thought.
"Drinks are in the hall."
"Thank you, but I must go and pay my respects to my host and hostess first."
Aro closed his eyes. He had a decidedly reptilian look. "You can't do that."
"Why not?"
"No host and hostess yet. Very curious state of affairs. Don't understand this place."
The doctor approached to shake his hand. Aro took it, then listened to his retreating footsteps.
Dr. Cullen may have been the only man here that Aro respected. The rest of them were nothing of note.
The women weren't much better.
The girl was a coldblooded young hussy. The older one was uptight. The serving woman—Mrs. Whitlock—was a terrified little creature.
Curious state of affairs, indeed.
Riley was in his bath. It was the perfect remedy after the long drive. He sank below the steaming water and allowed his mind to wander.
There had to be more guests coming. The group gathered so far was much older than he anticipated. He predicted most of them would be in bed by the time festivities began.
Riley thought about the upcoming evening: a shave, a cocktail, then dinner. Perhaps a sniff of the powder he brought to liven things up.
What happened afterward was anyone's guess.
Jacob stood struggling with his tie. He wasn't very good at this sort of thing.
Did he look right? Jacob supposed so.
He hoped to be seated near Miss Swan at dinner. The two chatted briefly on the journey over to the island. Jacob found her charming.
No one else had been very cordial to him. Funny the way they all eyed each other . . . as though they knew . . .
Well, it was up to him. He didn't mean to bungle his job.
Down the hall from the detective, Emmett was frowning.
This whole thing was not what he'd been led to expect. Emmett imagined a gathering of soldiers like himself. The men would laugh, carouse, and trade stories about a war many years gone.
But in some ways, being on Soldier Island felt like being back on the battlefield. It was the calm before the storm . . . a feeling he could not explain, even to himself.
Emmett wanted to leave, but the boat had gone back to the mainland.
He would have to stay.
Properly attired, Edward left his room, his eyes scanning every door and window.
His line of work required constant attention to detail. Without access to the house blueprints, a walk around the property would suit him just fine.
The gentlemen would gather for scotch and cigars after dinner. Discussions of power and politics inevitably followed.
The ladies would be in another room. He didn't know what they talked about.
The Whitlocks, meanwhile, would be busy cleaning up. A whole hour might pass before anyone noticed his absence.
Edward decided this was the perfect time to strike.
He moved as smoothly and noiselessly as a panther. A beast of prey and pleasant to the eye.
Dangerous to behold.
Edward was smiling to himself.
He was going to enjoy this week.
In her bedroom, Esme Platt, dressed in black silks for dinner, was reading her Bible.
Her lips moved as she followed the words:
"The heathen are sunk down in the pit that they made: in the net which they hid is their own foot taken. The Lord is known by the judgment which he executeth: the wicked is snared in the work of his own hands. The wicked shall be turned into hell."
The gong sounded for dinner.
Her tight lips closed. She shut the Bible.
Esme pinned a brooch to her neck and left the room.
A/N: Revamping (haha) one of my favorite Agatha Christie novels, And Then There Were None. Because all things can get the Twilight treatment if you wish it so!
I've moved the setting from England to Washington and borrowed some elements from the fantastic 2015 BBC adaptation into this story. Will everyone live? Will everyone die? Wait and see!
Thanks for reading!
P.S. For my Blue Hour series readers, fear not! I'm actively writing my Breaking Dawn AU. I expect to publish that in August/September 2024.