“She could have been singing!”
“I doubt it. But she could have been running. She drops the globe, then runs all the way downstairs…”
A seagull flew overhead, crying mournfully. I knew how it felt. I almost wanted to cry myself.
“What’s missing is the motive,” I went on. “Think back, Tim. You were at school with these people. There are only three of them left – Brenda, Mark and Eric. Would any of them have any reason to kill the rest of you?”
Tim sighed. “The only people who ever threatened to kill me,” he said, “were the teachers. My French teacher once threw a piece of chalk at me. And when that missed, he threw the blackboard.”
“How did you get on with Mark Tyler?”
“We were friends. We used to play conkers together.” He scratched his head. “I did once miss his conker and break three of his fingers, but I don’t think he minded too much.”
“How about Brenda Blake?”
Tim thought back. “She was in the school choir,” he said. “She was also in the rugby team. She used to sing in the scrum.” He scratched his head. “We used to tease her a bit but it was never serious.”
“Maybe she didn’t agree.”
The waves rolled in towards us. I looked out at the mainland, hoping to catch sight of Horatio Randle and his boat, the Silver Medal. But the sea was empty, darkening as the sun dipped behind it. What had the old fisherman said when he’d dropped us? “I’ll be back in a couple of days.” It had been Wednesday when we arrived. He might not return until the weekend. How many passengers would there be left waiting for him?
“How about Eric Draper?” I asked.
“What about him?”
“He could be the killer. It would have to be someone strong to carry the globe up to the roof in the first place. Can you remember anything about him?”
Tim laughed. “He was a great sport. I’ll never forget the last day of term when the seven of us pulled off his trousers and threw him in the canal!”
“What?” I exclaimed. “You pulled off his trousers and threw him in the canal? Why?”
“Well, he was the head boy. And he’d always been bossy. It was just a bit of fun. Except that he nearly drowned. And the canal was so polluted, he had to spend six months in hospital.”
“Are you telling me that the seven of you nearly killed Eric?” I was almost screaming. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that this whole thing could be his revenge?”
“But it was just a joke!”
“You almost killed him, Tim! Maybe he wasn’t amused.”
I stood up. It was time to go back to the house. The other three would be waiting for us … if they’d managed to survive the last half-hour.
“I wish I’d never come here,” Tim muttered.
“I wish you’d never come here,” I agreed.
“Poor Libby. And Sylvie. And Janet. And Rory, of course. He was first.”
We walked a few more steps in silence. Then I suddenly stopped. “What did you say, Tim?” I demanded.
“I didn’t say anything!”
“Yes, you did! Before you weren’t saying anything, you were saying something.”
“I asked which side of the bed you wanted.”
“No. That was yesterday.” I played back what he had just said and that was when I saw it, the pattern I’d been looking for. “You’re brilliant!” I said.
“Thanks!” Tim frowned. “What have I done?”
“Tell me,” I said. “Did Libby come first in anything at school? And was it … by any chance … geography?”
“Yes. She did. How did you know?”
“Let’s get back inside,” I said.
I found Eric, Mark and Brenda in the drawing-room. This was one of the most extraordinary rooms in the house – almost like a chapel with a great stained glass window at one end and a high, vaulted ceiling. Rory McDougal had obviously fancied himself as a musician. There was even a church organ against the wall, the silver pipes looming over us. Like so many of the other rooms, the walls were lined with old weapons. In here they were antique pistols; muskets and flintlocks. All in all, we couldn’t have chosen a worse house to share with a mass murderer. There were more weapons than you’d find in the Tower of London and I just hoped that they weren’t as real as they looked.
The three survivors were sitting in heavy, leather chairs. I stood in front of them with the organ on one side and a row of bookshelves on the other. Everyone was watching me and I felt a bit like Hercule Poirot at the end of one of his cases, explaining it to the suspects. The only trouble was, this wasn’t the end of the case. I was still certain that I was talking to the murderer. He or she had to be one of the people in the room.
Somewhere outside, a clock chimed the hour. It was nine o’clock. Night had fallen.
“Seven of you were invited to Crocodile Island,” I began. “And I see now that you all have something in common.”
“We went to the same school,” interrupted Tim.
“I know that, Tim. But there’s something else. You all got prizes for coming first. You’ve already told me that Rory was first in maths. Libby was first in geography…”
“What’s this got to do with anything?” Eric snapped.
“Don’t you see? Libby was first in geography and someone dropped a globe on her head. Someone told me that Sylvie Binns came first in chemistry and we think she was poisoned.”
“Janet came first in French…” Mark murmured.
“…which would explain why she was stabbed with a model of the Eiffel Tower. And Rory McDougal came first in maths.”
“He was stabbed too,” Eric said.
“He was more than stabbed. He was divided!”
There was a long silence.
“That’s the reason why Johnny Nadler wasn’t invited to the island,” Brenda said. “He never came first in anything. He was second…”
“But that means…” Eric had gone pale. “I came first in history.”
“I came first in sport,” Mark said.
Brenda nodded. “And I came first in music.”
We all turned to look at Tim. But he couldn’t have come first in anything … could he? I noticed he was blushing. He licked his lips and looked the other way.
“What did you come first in, Tim?” I asked.
“I didn’t…” he began, but I could tell he was lying.
“We have to know,” I said. “It could be important.”
“I remember…” Brenda began.
“All right,” Tim sighed. “I got first prize in needlework.”
“Needlework!” I exclaimed.
“Well … yes. It was a hobby of mine. Just for a bit. I mean…” He was going redder and redder. “I didn’t even want the prize. I just got it. It was for a handkerchief…”
The idea of my sixteen-year-old brother winning a prize for an embroidered hanky made my head spin. But this wasn’t the time to laugh. Hopefully I’d be able to do that later.
“Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Eric said. He looked annoyed. Maybe it was because I was ten years younger than him and I was the one who’d worked it out. “I came first in history – and you’re saying I’m going to be killed … historically?”
“That’s what it looks like,” I said.
“But how…?”
I pointed at the wall, at the flintlock pistols on the wooden plaques. “Maybe someone will use one of those,” I said. “Or there are swords, arrows, spears … that bear upstairs is even holding a blunderbuss. This place is full of old weapons.”
“What about me?” Brenda whispered.
“You’re not an old weapon!” Tim said.
“I came first in music.” Brenda glared at the organ as if it was about to jump off the wall and eat her.
“But who’s doing this?” Mark cut in. “I mean … it’s got to be someone in this room. Right? We know there’s nobody else on the island. There can’t be anybody hiding. We’ve searched everywhere.”
“It’s him!” Brenda pointed at Eric. “He never forgave us for throwing him in the canal. This is his revenge!”
“What about you?” Eric returned. “You once said you were going to kill us all. It was in the school yard. I remember it clearly!”
“That’s true!” Mark said.
“You used to bully me all the time,” Brenda wailed. “Just because I had pigtails. And crooked teeth.”
“And you were fat,” Tim reminded her.
“But I didn’t mean it, when I said that.” She turned to Mark. “You said you were going to kill Tim when he broke all your fingers with that conker!”
“I only broke three of them!” Tim interrupted.
“I didn’t much like Tim,” Mark agreed. “And you’re right. I would have quite happily strangled him. Not that it would have been easy with three broken fingers. But I never had any argument with you or with Eric or any of the others. Why would I want to kill you?”
“It’s still got to be one of us,” Eric insisted. He paused. “It can’t be Tim,” he went on.
“Why not?” Tim asked.
“Because this whole business is the work of a fiendish madman and you’re not fiendish. You’re just silly!”
“Oh thanks!” Tim looked away.
“I know it’s not me…” Eric went on.
“That’s what you say,” Brenda sniffed.
“I know it’s not me, so it’s got to be Brenda or Mark.”
“What about Sylvie?” Tim suggested.
“She’s already dead, Tim,” I reminded him, quietly.
“Oh yes.”
“This is all irrelevant,” Mark said. “The question is – what are we going to do? We could be stuck on this island for days, or even weeks. It all depends on when Captain Randle comes back. And by then it could be too late!”
“I’d like to make a suggestion,” I said. Everyone stopped and looked at me. “The first thing is, we’ve all got to keep each other in sight.”
“The kid’s right,” Mark agreed. “So long as we can see each other, we’re going to be safe.”
“That’s true!” Tim exclaimed. “All we have to do is keep our eyes open and everything will be fine.” He turned to me. “You’re brilliant, Nick. For a moment there I was getting really worried.”
Then all the lights went out.
It happened so suddenly that for a moment I thought it was just me. Had I been knocked out or somehow closed my eyes without noticing? The last thing I saw was the four of them – Eric, Brenda, Mark and Tim – sitting in their chairs as if caught in a photograph. Then everything was black. There was no moon that night and even if there had been the stained glass window would have kept most of the light out. Darkness came crashing onto us. It was total.
“Don’t panic!” Eric said.
There was a gunshot. I saw it, a spark of red on the other side of the room.
Tim screamed and for a horrible moment I wondered if he had been shot. I forced myself to calm down. He’d come first in needlework. Nobody would be aiming a gun at him.
“Tim!” I called out.
“Can I panic now?” he called back.
“Eric…?” That was Mark’s voice.
And then there was a sort of groaning sound, followed by a heavy thud. At the same time I heard a door open and close. I stood up, trying to see through the darkness. But it was hopeless. I couldn’t even make out my own hand in front of my face.
“Tim?” I called again.
“Nick?” I was relieved to hear his voice.
“Eric?” I tried.
Silence.
“Brenda?”
Nothing.
“Mark?”
The lights came back on.
There were only two people alive in the room. I was standing in front of my chair. One more step and I’d have put my foot through the coffee table. Tim was under the coffee table. He must have crawled there when the lights went out. Eric was on the floor. He had been shot. There was a flintlock pistol, still smoking, lying on the carpet on the other side of the room. It must have been taken off the wall, fired and then dropped. At least, that’s what it looked like. Brenda was sitting in her chair. She was dead too. One of the organ pipes – the largest – had been pulled down on top of her. That must have been the thud I had heard. Brenda had sung her last opera. The only music she needed now was a hymn.
There was no sign of Mark.
“Are you all right, Tim?” I demanded.
“Yes!” Tim sounded surprised. “I haven’t been murdered!” he exclaimed.
“I noticed.” I waited while he climbed out from underneath the coffee table. “At least we know who the killer is,” I said.
“Do we?”
“It’s got to be Mark.” I said. “Mark Tyler…”
“I always knew it was him,” Tim said. “Call it intuition. Call it experience. But I knew he was a killer even before he’d done any killing.”
“I don’t know, Tim,” I said. It bothered me, because to be honest Mark was the last person I would have suspected. And yet, at the same time, I had to admit … it would have taken a fast mover to push the globe off the roof and make it all the way downstairs in time and Mark was the fastest person on the island.
“Where do you think he went?” Tim asked.
“I don’t know.”
We left the room carefully. In fact, Tim made me leave it first. The fact was that – unless I’d got the whole thing wrong – it was just the three of us now on the island; Mark could be waiting for us anywhere. Or waiting for Tim, rather. He had no quarrel with me. And that made me think. Tim had come first in needlework. Following the pattern of the other deaths, that meant he would probably be killed with some sort of needle. But what would that mean? A sewing needle dipped in poison? A hypodermic syringe?
Tim must have had the same thought. He was looking everywhere, afraid to touch anything, afraid even to take another step. We went out into the hall. The fire had died down and was glowing red. The front door was open.
“Maybe he went outside,” Tim said.
“What would be the point?” I asked.
Tim shuddered. “Don’t talk about points,” he said.
We went outside. And that was where we found Mark. He had come first in sport but now he had reached the finishing line. Somebody had been throwing the javelin and they’d thrown it at him. It had hit him in the chest. He was lying on the grass, doing a good impersonation of a sausage on a stick.
“It’s … it’s … it’s…” Tim couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s Mark.” There were a few leaves scattered around his body. That puzzled me. The nearest trees were ten metres away. But this wasn’t the time to play the detective. There were no more suspects. And only one more victim.
I looked at Tim.
Tim looked at me.
We were the only two left.
NEEDLES
Tim didn’t sleep well that night. Although I hadn’t said anything, not wanting to upset him, even he had managed to work out that he had to be the next on the killer’s list. He also knew that his own murder would have something to do with needlework. So he was looking for needles everywhere.
By one o’clock in the morning we knew that there were no sewing needles in the room, no knitting needles and no pine needles. Even so, it took him an hour to get into bed and several more hours to get to sleep. Mind you, nobody would have found it easy getting to sleep dressed in a full suit of medieval armour, but that still hadn’t stopped Tim putting it on.
“There could be a poisoned needle in the mattress,” he said. “Or someone could try and inject me with a syringe.”
Tim didn’t snore that night; he clanked. Every time he rolled over he sounded like twenty cans of beans in a washing machine. I just hoped he wasn’t planning to take a bath in the suit of armour the following morning. That way he could end up rusting to death.
At four-thirty, he woke up screaming.
??
?What is it, Tim?” I asked.
“I had a bad dream, Nick,” he said.
“Don’t tell me. You saw a needle.”
“No. I saw a haystack.”
I didn’t sleep well either. I got cramp and woke up in the morning with pins and needles. I didn’t tell Tim, though. He’d have had a fit.
We had breakfast together in the kitchen. Neither of us ate very much. For a start, we were surrounded by dead bodies, which didn’t make us feel exactly cheerful. But Tim was also terrified. I’d managed to persuade him to change out of the armour but now he was worrying about the food. Were there going to be needles in the cereal? A needle in the tea? In the end, I gave him a straw with a tissue sellotaped over the end. The tissue worked as a filter and he was able to suck up a little orange juice and a very softly-boiled egg.
I have to say that for once I was baffled. It was still like being in an Agatha Christie novel – only this time I couldn’t flick through to the last page and see who did it without bothering to read the rest. Personally, I had always thought Eric had been the killer. He seemed to have the strongest motive – being half-drowned on the last day of school. It was funny really. All eight of the old boys and girls of St Egbert’s had disliked each other. But someone, somewhere, had disliked them all even more. The whole thing had been planned right down to the last detail. And the last detail, unfortunately, was Tim.
But who? And why?
Tim sat miserably at his end of the table, hardly daring to move. Why had he had to come first in needlework of all things? How was I supposed to find the needle that was going to kill him? I knew now that the only hope for me was to solve this thing before the killer struck one last time. And a nasty thought had already occurred to me. Would the killer stop with Tim? I wasn’t meant to be part of this. I had never gone to St Egbert’s. But I was a witness to what had happened and maybe I had seen too much.
I went over what had happened last night. We had always assumed that there was nobody else on the island, but thinking it through I knew this couldn’t be true. We had all been sitting down: Brenda in front of the organ, Eric opposite her, Mark nearest the door and Tim and me on the sofa. But none of us had been anywhere near the light switch, and someone had most certainly turned off the lights – not just in the drawing-room but throughout the entire house. Somewhere down in the basement, there would be a main fuse switch. But that led to another question. If the killer had been down in the basement, then how had he or she managed to appear in the room seconds later to shoot Eric and push the organ pipe onto Brenda?