It was so sudden and unexpected that no one could find the words. The group stood staring dumbly at the dead man on the floor.
Dr. Cullen leaned down again and sniffed Riley's lips. Then he picked up the glass from which Riley had been drinking.
The general mopped his face with a handkerchief.
"Doctor . . . do you mean that he just choked . . . and died?"
"Seems that way."
Bella watched the doctor's fingers tighten around the glass. She felt Masen's eyes and knew—somehow—that he was focused on the same thing.
The general was still upset. "Never knew a man could die like that! Just of a choking fit!"
"In the midst of life, we are in death," Ms. Platt sighed. "I'll say a prayer for his soul."
The judge cleared his throat. "Black, Cullen, Masen. Might I ask you younger and stronger men to carry Biers to his room? Miss Swan, perhaps you could assist them with the doors."
The four moved to follow his verdict. Bella hurried ahead of the ghoulish parade, opening doors as she went.
Her heart was sputtering in her chest. She could not fathom that the young, full-of-life Riley Biers was dead. Struck down in a moment.
Healthy young men didn't choke over their cocktails.
Bella stood near the vanity table as the men laid Riley on his bed. The doctor pulled the sheet over Riley's head with a gentle hand.
It looked as though he regretted his earlier outburst.
Detective Black joined her at the vanity. Bella stood back and watched him open a few drawers until he found what he was looking for.
It was a silver box full of white powder. The detective brought it to his nose and sniffed.
"What's that?"
"A stimulant."
The detective passed the box to Masen. Masen stuck his pinky finger into the white powder and put a small amount of it on his tongue.
"Undoubtedly."
"Perhaps we should remove it from his room," Dr. Cullen murmured. "Out of respect for the family. Scandal."
"It's a police matter now, Doctor. There will be an investigation."
The four filed out of the room. Masen shut the door with a final, sobering click.
But they did not yet return to the drawing room. Bella and the three men paused outside of Riley's bedroom, thinking.
"Was there something in his drink, Doctor?"
He stared at Bella before giving a curt nod. "I believe so, yes."
"What was it?" Masen asked.
"I smelled almonds."
"Cyanide," Detective Black breathed.
"We have to tell the others."
The general, the judge, and Ms. Platt were waiting for them. Whitlock, they were told, had gone to check on his wife.
The elder three listened as the detective explained what he found in Riley's room.
Dr. Cullen strode to the drinks table and began to examine all of the bottles. He shook his head.
"All of these are fine."
"Did he put the cyanide in the glass himself?"
"Not the easiest way to go," Masen muttered.
"He didn't seem like the type," Bella said. "He was so alive."
All of them were thinking about Riley's arrival at the boat launch a few hours ago. He had been in the prime of life, of manhood. He looked like a young god, and the Mercedes had been his chariot.
Now he was dead. It didn't make any sense.
"Is there any possibility other than suicide?"
The doctor was staring at Bella again. "Such as?"
"That's for the police to find out," Judge Vittori said dismissively. "I suggest, again, we retire for the night. Be ready for the boatman tomorrow."
The guests made their way upstairs in a glum procession. Everyone exchanged awkward goodnights and disappeared into their rooms.
There seemed to be nothing anyone could say. How to explain the sudden death of one of their own?
Bella and Masen were the last to go inside. They stared at each other for a moment.
Her mind was whirring with dark possibilities. She knew his was working just as hard to find an answer.
Then the last two locks snapped into place.
In his room, Aro was dressing for bed, but his mind was on Liam Kincaid.
Gerandy, for the state, had bungled it. He had been eager to make an example of Kincaid. He knew the case was a starmaker, a step to something greater: elected office.
Snow, for the defense, had been stellar. His points against the state's evidence held up. His cross examinations had been fiery. He was masterful with his client, portraying him as a patsy for a police department spinning its wheels.
Kincaid impressed the jury, too. He did not rise to the prosecutor's bait and testified calmly. Rationally.
The judge wound his watch and set it on the table by the bed.
Aro remembered exactly how he felt on the bench during those proceedings. He listened, made notes, and tabulated every scrap of evidence against the prisoner.
It had been an enjoyable case. Snow's closing arguments were masterful. Gerandy, with the last word, failed to dampen the good impression defending counsel made on the jury.
And then had come his own summing up . . .
Judge Vittori removed his false teeth and dropped them into a glass of water. The shrunken lips fell in. It was a cruel mouth now, cruel and predatory.
He'd cooked Kincaid's goose, all right.
Downstairs, in the dining room, Jasper was puzzled.
The figurines at the center of the table had been moved. Though still in a circle, there was a gap between them now.
One appeared to be missing.
"I could have sworn there were ten," Jasper muttered to himself.
General McCarty was tossing and turning in his bed.
Sleep would not come to him. Henry Rochester's face hung behind his eyelids.
Emmett had liked Henry. He had been pleased that Rosalie liked him, too.
Rosalie was so capricious. Lots of good fellows that Rosalie would turn up her nose at and pronounce dull.
"Dull!" Just like that.
But she hadn't found Henry Rochester dull. They'd got on well together from the beginning. They talked about plays and music and pictures together. Emmett had been delighted at the thought that Rosalie took a motherly interest in the boy.
Motherly indeed! He had been a fool not to remember that Rochester was twenty-eight to Rosalie's twenty-nine.
Emmett had adored Rosalie. He could see her now: her lovely blue eyes, the golden curls of her hair. He loved Rosalie and believed in her absolutely.
Out there in France, in the middle of hell, he thought of her often. That day, Emmett took her picture out of the breast pocket of his tunic.
And then—he'd found out!
It happened the way things happened in books: the letter in the wrong envelope. She'd been writing to them both and put the letter for Rochester in the envelope she addressed to her husband.
Even now, all these years later, Emmett could feel the shock of it, the pain . . . God, it had hurt!
Rosalie and Henry!
God damn that man. Damn his smiling face, his brisk, "Yes, sir." Liar and hypocrite! Stealer of another man's wife!
It had gathered slowly—that cold murderous rage.
Emmett managed to carry on as usual. Rochester hadn't suspected. No one did.
No one, except . . . maybe . . . that young private, Ben Cheney.
That boy was quite sharp. He seemed to guess something was afoot when the orders came down.
The general deliberately sent Rochester to death. Only a miracle could have brought him through unhurt.
Yes, he'd sent Rochester to his death and he wasn't sorry.
It had been easy enough. Mistakes were being made all the time. There was confusion, panic. People might say afterwards, "Old McCarty lost his nerve a bit, made some colossal blunders, sacrificed some of his best men."
They couldn't say more than that. War took good and bad men in equal measure.
Cheney looked at his commanding officer very oddly from that point on, almost like he knew.
Rosalie hadn't known. Emmett supposed she wept for her lover. Her weeping was over by the time he returned home.
Emmett never told her that he knew. The two had gone on together, but she was never the same. Three or four years later, she contracted pneumonia and died.
That had been a long time ago.
Emmett left the Army and bought a place of his own. He had nice neighbors. He went shooting and fishing. He saw all of them in church on Sundays.
His new neighbors had been friendly at first. But soon he had an uneasy feeling that they were talking behind his back.
Cheney. Cheney must have talked.
It was all so long ago. Emmett had withdrawn from everyone, but now, a hidden voice had exposed his hidden shame.
Surely nobody would take the charge seriously. The Voice had made all sorts of wild accusations. He could hardly imagine the Swan girl or Ms. Platt killing anyone. And the Whitlocks seemed too meek to bite the hand that fed them.
If there was a killer among the guests, it was Masen.
Emmett knew his type: soldiers of fortune. Mercenaries. Lowly enough to kill for a few bucks.
A man so unlike the general.
Deaths on the battlefield were one thing. Murder for money was another.
I wonder when we will get away again.
Emmett knew the answer to that: tomorrow. Max the boatman would take them back to the mainland tomorrow.
It was a funny thing. Emmett almost didn't want to leave. It was peaceful on Soldier Island.
Emmett had blustered with the best of them tonight. But there was something to be said about his crime being out in the open here.
He was General Emmett McCarty to all of them. Not a liar, not a disgrace.
He could be . . . himself.
And he did not want to leave.
Down the hall, in her room, Bella was wide awake. All the lights were on because she was afraid of the dark.
Embry . . . Embry . . . why do I feel that you're near me tonight?
Bella was on that beach again. Mrs. Brady was there, stout, good-humored. Colin, whining a little as always, pulled at her hand.
"I want to swim out to the rock, Miss Swan. Why can't I swim out to the rock?"
Bella looked up and found Embry's eyes watching her.
Those evenings after Colin was in bed . . .
"Come out for a stroll, Miss Swan."
"I think perhaps I will."
The moon was full above them. The sea breeze was warm on their skin.
Embry's arm came around her. "I love you. Do you know that I love you, Bella?"
Yes, she knew.
Or she thought she knew.
"I can't ask you to marry me. I don't have a penny to my name. It's all I can do to support myself. That's life, isn't it? Three months. Three months of being the heir until Colin was born."
If the child never existed, Embry would have come into everything.
"All's well that ends well, I suppose. Colin's a nice kid. I'm fond of him."
It wasn't a lie. Embry was always ready to play games with his nephew. The games Colin could play, anyway. Colin wasn't a strong child.
He was the kind of child, perhaps, who wouldn't live to grow up . . .
"Miss Swan, why can't I swim to the rock?"
It was his tenth whine of the day.
"It's too far, Colin."
"But, Miss Swan . . . "
Bella threw off the covers and went to the vanity table. She shook three tablets from the bottle of aspirin and swallowed them.
Her eyes inexplicably drifted to the nursery rhyme on the mantelpiece.
Ten little soldier boys went out to dine;
One choked his little self and then there were nine.
Bella shivered.
Had Riley Biers wanted to die?
Carlisle was dreaming.
It had been very hot in the operating room that morning. Sweat poured down his face. His hands were clammy. He had difficulty holding the scalpel.
That scalpel was beautifully sharp and silver. Easy to cut with. The skin had fallen away from it like a knife through butter.
It was meant to be a simple appendectomy, but the organ had been inflamed.
That was what he told the hospital board, anyway. The attending nurse was too cowed to disagree with him.
Carlisle knew she had seen his shaking hands. Smelled the drink on his breath. But he reminded the woman—just minutes before the deposition—that good nursing posts were hard to find.
She kept quiet.
The operating room of his dream shimmered and changed. Vanessa Wolfe was gone. Now Esme Platt was open on his table, gushing blood from his knife.
"In the midst of life, we are in death," she whispered.
The room shifted again. The body on the table became Riley Biers. His lips were curved into a bloody grin.
"Beastly bad luck, eh, Doctor?"
Carlisle woke up with a start. It was morning. Sunlight was pouring into the room.
Someone was knocking on the door.
"Yes?"
"Doctor, doctor. Please help me!"
Carlisle threw on his robe.
Whitlock was waiting for him in the hallway. His face was as white as bone.
"What's wrong?"
"It's my wife, doctor," Whitlock said frantically. "I can't get her to wake."
Carlisle tightened the belt of his robe. "Show me."
The two men hurried to the servant's quarters. The doctor found Mrs. Whitlock lying peacefully on her side.
He lifted the cold hand, raised the eyelid. There were no breaths.
No pulse.
No signs of life.
"Is she . . . is my Alice all right?"
Carlisle shook his head. "She's gone, Whitlock. I'm very sorry."
The butler's eyes filled with tears. Carlisle put a hand on his shoulder in support.
"Was it her heart?"
Carlisle shook his head again. "I can't be sure of that now. Was she in good health otherwise?"
"She never complained."
"When was the last time she was seen by a doctor?"
Whitlock wiped his nose. "We haven't been to one in years."
"What about her sleep? Did she have problems?"
Whitlock's hands went behind his back as though embarrassed by his earlier display of emotion.
"Sometimes."
"Did she take things to make her sleep?"
"Once in a blue moon, I suppose. She was still mourning Mrs. Cope."
Carlisle went to the medicine cabinet of the washroom. There were a number of bottles: hair lotion, lavender water, toothpaste, mouthwash. No sleeping draughts or tablets.
"But she didn't have anything last night, sir, except . . . except what you gave her."
When the gong sounded for breakfast at nine o'clock, it found everyone up and awaiting the summons.
The general and the judge were on the terrace.
Bella Swan and Edward Masen met by accident. Both had been looking for the boat and discovered Detective Jacob Black doing the same thing.
"No sign of it yet. I've been watching."
Bella smiled at him. "That boatman didn't seem like the type to keep a strict schedule."
"Unlike yourself, Miss Swan. I imagine that you run a tight ship."
This comment made her giggle.
Masen rolled his eyes and chose to focus on the waves. They were choppy today. The sky looked dull and gray.
"I don't like the look of this. Storm's coming."
Detective Black stared at the other man. "What did you say?"
"I said I think a storm's coming."
The color drained from the detective's face. Before Bella could ask what startled him so, the gong for breakfast sounded.
The three turned back for the house.
"You know, it beats me . . . why Biers wanted to do himself in. I've been worrying about it all night."
Bella and Masen paused to stare at him.
"Me, too."
"Same for me."
"There's no motive, though. No murderer. If we're all talking about the same thing here."
Masen lit a cigarette. "Well, there is someone."
"The doctor?" Bella asked. "Do you think he's capable of that?"
"You saw how he behaved at dinner. I think everyone is capable."
Ms. Platt came outside as they approached the house. "Is the boat coming?"
"Not yet," Bella said.
The group went in for breakfast. There were eggs, bacon, tea, and coffee.
Ms. Platt waited until Whitlock left the room. "That man looks ill this morning."
"Perhaps he's worried about Mrs. Whitlock."
The door opened again. The doctor came in and found an open seat at the table.
"Dr. Cullen, have you gone to see Mrs. Whitlock?" Bella asked.
The doctor lowered his cup of coffee. "Yes, I have."
The group was stunned as he relayed the news that Mrs. Whitlock had passed away in her sleep.
"What was the manner of her death?" Judge Vittori asked.
"Impossible to say offhand. My supposition is heart trouble. But I will leave that to the coroner's ruling."
Masen, the detective, and Bella shared a glance. The latter cleared her throat.
"What did you give her last night?"
Dr. Cullen frowned. "Excuse me?"
"Last night, after she fainted. You treated Mrs. Whitlock in her room."
"I gave her a sedative," the doctor said coldly. "It calmed her nerves."
But Bella wasn't listening to the doctor any longer. Her eyes had gone to the figurines at the middle of the table.
"There were ten of them."
"From the nursery rhyme, yes."
Bella pointed. "Look. Now there are eight."
The table went quiet. All eyes went to the figurines, counting.
She was right: only eight remained on the table.
"There were ten of us," she whispered. "Eight guests and the Whitlocks. But now she's dead and so is Riley Biers."
"There will be a perfectly rational explanation," Dr. Cullen told her. "I trust you're not going to unravel, Miss Swan. The very last thing we need is another hysterical woman."
Ms. Platt tutted. "Well, that explains it."
"What do you mean?"
"You all heard what was said on that recording. She was accused, together with her husband, of murdering her former employer."
Detective Black studied her. "Go on."
"I think the accusation was true. We all saw her. The shock of everyone learning of her wickedness killed Mrs. Whitlock. She was scared to death."
"A coroner will be able to tell for sure."
She put a spoonful of sugar into her tea. "It was probably an act of God."
The others were taken aback. Detective Black shifted in his seat.
"That's carrying things a bit far, Ms. Platt."
The older woman looked at all of them in turn. Her chin went up defensively.
"You think it's impossible that a sinner was struck down by the wrath of God? I do not!"
The judge shook his head. His tone was kind.
"My dear lady, in my experience of ill-doing, Providence leaves the work of conviction and chastisement to us mortals, and the process is fraught with difficulties. There are no shortcuts."
Ms. Platt merely shrugged in reply.
Detective Black was stroking his chin. "If not an act of God—my apologies, Ms. Platt—and not from the sedatives, then what about her husband?"
Masen's eyes were alight with interest. "You think Whitlock killed his own wife? What for?"
"Why do men ever kill their wives? Judge Vittori can back me up on this. There's always some foolish reason."
"The detective is correct. Men will kill for love, for power, for money. Perhaps the Whitlocks were in Mrs. Cope's will. They might have hoped to hasten their inheritance."
"And no one would be the wiser," the detective agreed. "I'm sure they felt safe and happy the plot was never discovered."
"I don't think Mrs. Whitlock ever felt safe."
Dr. Cullen scoffed at Bella's words. "Just like a woman."
The detective ignored them.
"They kill their mistress and walk away with the money. Life goes on. New jobs come in. Then some unknown lunatic spills the beans and Mrs. Whitlock goes to pieces. Mr. Whitlock can't have that, so he shuts her mouth. Permanently."
"You didn't see him this morning when he came to get me," Dr. Cullen said. "He was quite emotional."
"Maybe he regretted what he'd done."
"Do you regret your crimes, Masen?"
The rogue smiled. "Not at all."
Everyone jumped as the door opened to reveal Whitlock. If he knew they were discussing his guilt, the butler gave no sign of it.
"Is there anything else I can get for you all? I'm sorry there's so little toast, but we're out of bread. The new shipment hasn't come from the mainland yet."
Judge Vittori shifted in his chair. "What time does the boat usually arrive?"
"Between seven and eight, sir. Sometimes a bit after. If he's ill, Max sends his brother."
"What time is it now?"
"Ten minutes to ten, sir."
Again there was silence.
The general sighed after a long moment. "My condolences for your wife, Whitlock. Dr. Cullen just told us."
"Thank you, sir."
Then Whitlock collected the empty bacon dish and left the room.
Edward and Detective Black stood on the terrace, smoking.
"About this boat—"
"I know what you're thinking, Masen. I've asked myself the same question. The boat should have arrived by now. It hasn't come. Why?"
"Do you have a theory?"
Black frowned. "It's not an accident. It's part and parcel of the whole business."
"You don't think it will come?"
An impatient voice spoke from behind the two. "It's not coming."
General McCarty was ghostly pale. It looked as though he had aged ten years since breakfast.
"Of course it won't come. We're counting on the motorboat to take us off the island, but we're not going to leave. None of us are. It's the end, you see . . . the end of everything."
The younger men glanced at each other. The general continued, more to himself now.
"That's peace—real peace. To come to the end, not to have to go on . . . yes. Peace."
He turned abruptly and walked away. Along the terrace, down the stone steps, to the beach. They watched him until he was out of sight.
"Wonderful. Cullen will run out of sedatives at this rate. Everyone will go the way of the general by tomorrow."
Edward smirked. "Not you."
"Nor you," the other man chuckled.
Carlisle came out onto the terrace. He stood there for a moment, thinking.
Black and Masen were to his left. Vittori was to his right. The judge was sitting in one of the chairs, his forehead furrowed in thought.
Carlisle went to the right.
He was just taking his seat when Miss Swan joined the group. She seemed to be steeling herself for something.
"Miss Swan?"
"Why did you bring your medical bag?"
Masen and the detective inched closer to hear. The doctor was frowning.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why did you bring your medical bag to Soldier Island? You're a guest."
"Actually, I'm not."
Carlisle shifted under the weight of everyone's eyes.
"Mrs. Owen suffers from female neuroses. My specialty is women's disorders. Mr. Owen engaged me to tend to his wife."
"You gave up surgery for that?"
"The medical field is very rewarding, Masen," the doctor said brusquely. "I go where I'm called."
"What drugs do you have in that bag?"
Carlisle scowled at her. "Why do you ask?"
"Two people have died under mysterious circumstances since we've arrived here," she snapped. "The first one provoked you and you treated the second. Now they're both dead. Is that not strange?"
"Have you been treated for neuroses, Miss Swan?"
"Of course not!"
"She's right to ask the questions, Doctor," the detective said warningly. "The circumstances are very strange, indeed."
"No, she only wants attention. Have you had enough of it, Miss Swan? All eyes are on you now. What do you want?"
"I want to search your bag."
"You can't be serious—"
The detective had put a firm hand on Carlisle's shoulder. "If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear."
Ms. Platt knitted while the other guests searched the doctor's bag. The judge sat with both hands on his walking stick, watching.
The general had not yet returned from his walk.
Detective Black was comparing two bottles. "Mild sedatives. Nothing dangerous."
"Are you satisfied, Miss Swan?"
Bella was staring at the table. "I'm so sorry. I really thought . . . I'm sorry."
"Seeing as you've searched through my things, you won't mind if I do the same?"
The doctor stalked off without waiting for her answer. The guests followed him to the hallway where the luggage had been placed for the boatman's arrival.
Dr. Cullen seized the case belonging to Bella and dumped the contents onto the floor.
Bella stood as still as stone while he rifled through her personal effects.
He was acting like a school principal with a troublesome student. This exercise was only intended to humiliate her.
A lifetime of dealing with men like the doctor had been good training for this moment.
"Get a hold of yourself, Miss Swan, or I will be forced to make decisions for your own health."
The other guests slipped away one by one. Only Masen remained behind.
"Here, let me help you."
Bella snatched her nightgown from his hands. "I don't need your help, Mr. Masen."
"Women who outwit snobs like the doctor get to call me Edward."
A smile she could not control grew on her face. "All right . . . Edward."
The two worked together to fold, stack, and replace the contents of her suitcase. Edward returned the case to its spot among the others, then offered her a cigarette.
Bella allowed him to light it. "Did you really kill all those men?"
"I did."
"Why?"
Edward took a few moments to answer. "They hurt other people. Or they killed them. The families—my clients—wanted the kind of justice the law couldn't provide."
Bella supposed there was some truth in that. Detective Black and Judge Vittori would probably agree with him, in the end. The law could only do so much.
"Do you think I'm crazy?"
"I think you're one of the sanest people here. Forget about the doctor, Miss Swan. He's a fool."
"Bella."
"Pardon?"
"Logical men get to call me Bella."
"Not Isabella?"
"I don't think it suits me."
"Then maybe you are crazy," Edward said quietly.
The couple—in spite of the dire situation—began to laugh.