Death Aboard the Eidolon

The yacht Eidolon cut through the black Atlantic like a silver knife.

Moonlight glazed the water in long ribbons, and the sea breathed against the hull with the slow patience of some immense sleeping creature. Above deck, rigging creaked softly in the wind. Below, behind polished mahogany walls and velvet drapery, eight guests sat around a dinner table lit by wavering candlelight.

The dining salon smelled faintly of cigar smoke, sea salt, and roasted pheasant.

Captain Alistair Vale stood at the head of the table with one hand resting on the back of his chair.

“My friends,” he said, raising his wineglass, “to ten days of civilized company, calm seas, and no disasters.”

“An ambitious prayer,” murmured Lady Beatrice Ashcombe.

A few guests chuckled politely.

Others did not.

The yacht had departed Southampton three days earlier under unusual circumstances. The official reason for the voyage was leisure—a private crossing to New York funded by industrial magnate Augustus Wintermere. Yet every person at the table knew there was another purpose aboard the Eidolon.

Something was being negotiated.

Something large enough that powerful people had crossed an ocean in secret to discuss it.

And every soul in the room was hiding something.

Lord Jules Turner sat halfway down the table beside his twin sister, Lady Julie Turner.

At first glance they appeared nearly identical despite the difference in dress. Both had dark curling hair, aristocratic features, and pale gray eyes that seemed always on the verge of amusement. Jules wore immaculate evening black with a silver watch chain. Julie wore deep green silk and long gloves despite the heat below deck.

The twins sat close together.

Too close, some whispered.

They spoke quietly without looking at one another, finishing each other’s sentences with disturbing precision. When one reached for wine, the other’s fingers twitched unconsciously.

“Do stop staring at us, Doctor,” Julie said suddenly.

Dr. Elias Mercer nearly dropped his fork.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been examining us since the soup course,” Jules said pleasantly. “One would think we were pinned butterflies.”

Mercer adjusted his spectacles. “Professional habit.”

“Physician or anatomist?” Julie asked.

A flicker crossed Mercer’s face.

“Both.”

Jules smiled faintly.

There it is, thought Mercer. They notice everything.

Across the table, Reverend Theodore Bell cleared his throat.

“The Turners are rather famous in London society,” he said diplomatically. “People are curious.”

“London society,” muttered Colonel Nathaniel Graves, “would attend a hanging if champagne were served.”

The colonel’s thick mustache twitched as he drank. He had the weathered face of a soldier and a stiff left hand that never fully unclenched. Rumor claimed he’d shot a man in Cairo. Another rumor claimed he’d shot three.

No one knew which was true.

Augustus Wintermere dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

The industrialist was the wealthiest man aboard and likely the reason the voyage existed at all. He was broad, silver-haired, and carried himself with the confidence of someone accustomed to purchasing outcomes.

“Surely,” Wintermere said, “we can survive one evening without descending into gossip.”

“Can we?” said Lady Beatrice softly.

The candles crackled.

Beatrice Ashcombe sat draped in black lace despite not being widowed. Her beauty had an edge to it, sharp enough to cut paper. A ruby pendant rested at her throat like a drop of blood.

She and Wintermere avoided looking at one another.

Which meant, naturally, that everyone noticed.

At the far end of the table sat Simon Reed, Wintermere’s young secretary. Quiet. Blond. Forgettable.

Or trying very hard to be.

He had barely spoken all evening.

Captain Vale lifted his glass again.

“To discretion, then.”

That earned a few smiles.

Julie Turner laughed softly into her wine.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Now I am frightened.”

Dinner continued beneath the sway of chandelier light.

Silverware chimed delicately against porcelain while outside the ocean rolled endlessly beneath the hull.

But conversation came in fractured pieces. Nobody wished to speak plainly.

Mercer watched the guests over steepled fingers.

The twins unsettled him most.

Not because of the rumors—though London whispered plenty. They supposedly dressed alike as children long past propriety. Slept in adjoining rooms with connecting doors even into adulthood. Shared tutors, horses, illnesses, thoughts.

“Sharing a cradle,” society hostesses called it behind fans and gloves.

Something unhealthy lingered there.

Not necessarily physical.

Psychological.

Julie reached suddenly for the salt at the same instant Jules did. Their hands collided without looking.

Neither reacted.

Mercer noticed something else.

The gloves.

Julie had not removed them once.

Curious.

“Doctor.”

Mercer looked up sharply.

Jules Turner smiled.

“You are dissecting us again.”

“My apologies.”

“Don’t apologize,” Julie said. “It’s refreshing. Most people try not to look directly at unpleasant things.”

A silence followed that.

Colonel Graves grunted into his whiskey.

“You speak as if you enjoy making people uncomfortable.”

“We do,” Jules replied.

“We?” asked Reverend Bell carefully.

Julie tilted her head.

“Did I not mention? My brother and I have never quite mastered being separate people.”

The reverend forced a laugh.

Wintermere did not.

Captain Vale intervened smoothly. “Lord Turner, I understand you recently returned from Vienna.”

“Mm.”

“And Lady Julie remained in England?”

“No,” Julie answered before Jules could speak. “I was with him.”

“Of course,” said the captain.

Mercer noticed Simon Reed glance quickly toward Wintermere at that response.

Fear.

No—not fear exactly.

Recognition.

Interesting.

The pheasant was served next.

Storm clouds gathered outside the portholes.

The yacht creaked.

And slowly, as wine loosened tongues, cracks began appearing.

“I understand,” said Lady Beatrice, “that Colonel Graves knew the late Lord Hastings.”

Graves stopped cutting his pheasant.

The room cooled several degrees.

“I knew many men,” he said flatly.

“But not all of them ended up dead in Alexandria.”

Captain Vale shot Beatrice a warning look.

She ignored it.

Graves set down his knife with careful precision.

“Lady Ashcombe.”

“Yes, Colonel?”

“If you intend to accuse me of murder, kindly wait until dessert.”

Julie laughed again.

It was not a pleasant laugh.

“Oh, I like him,” she said.

Jules nodded. “So do I. He sounds guilty.”

Graves stared at the twins.

“You two are peculiar devils.”

“We’ve been called worse.”

“By priests mostly,” Julie added.

Reverend Bell shifted uncomfortably.

Mercer noticed perspiration at the reverend’s collar despite the cool air.

Another secret.

How delightful.

Wintermere abruptly pushed back his chair.

“I believe,” he said, “we should retire to the salon after dinner. Captain, perhaps cigars?”

Vale nodded.

But before anyone could rise, a tremendous sound split the night.

BANG.

The yacht lurched violently.

Glass shattered.

Lady Beatrice screamed.

The chandelier swung overhead as the Eidolon groaned against the waves.

“What in God’s name—?” Graves barked.

Captain Vale was already moving.

“Stay here.”

He rushed out with two stewards.

For several seconds only the storm answered.

Then came shouting above deck.

Mercer rose immediately. “Has something struck us?”

“No,” said Jules quietly.

Everyone turned toward him.

“How could you possibly know that?” asked Bell.

Jules looked toward the ceiling.

“Because,” he said, “that was a gunshot.”

The storm worsened.

Rain hammered the deck overhead while the guests gathered uneasily in the adjoining salon. Lamps flickered gold against green wallpaper. The sea beyond the windows had become a writhing black abyss.

Captain Vale returned twenty minutes later drenched with seawater.

His expression had changed.

There was no more civility left in it.

“We have a problem,” he announced.

“No kidding,” muttered Graves.

Vale ignored him.

“One of the crew is dead.”

Silence.

“How?” whispered Beatrice.

The captain’s jaw tightened.

“Shot through the head.”

Reverend Bell crossed himself instinctively.

Mercer spoke first. “Who was he?”

“Second Officer Wilcox.”

“And the weapon?”

“Missing.”

Julie Turner leaned back slowly in her chair.

“Oh,” she said. “Now we have become interesting.”

Wintermere slammed down his glass.

“This is absurd. We are in the middle of the Atlantic.”

“Precisely,” said Jules.

No one liked the way he said it.

Captain Vale looked around the room carefully.

“Until we understand what happened, no one is to wander the ship alone.”

Graves scoffed. “You think one of us killed him?”

“I think,” said Vale, “that there are no stowaways aboard my yacht.”

The implication settled heavily.

Eight guests.

A dead officer.

Miles of ocean in every direction.

Mercer watched reactions carefully.

Bell looked horrified.

Beatrice looked calculating.

Wintermere looked angry.

Simon Reed looked terrified.

And the twins—

The twins looked fascinated.

Like children presented with a new toy.

Later that night the storm quieted to a cold drizzle.

The guests dispersed reluctantly to their cabins, though few intended to sleep.

Mercer lingered near the corridor outside the salon, smoking.

He heard soft footsteps behind him.

Lady Julie Turner.

Or perhaps Lord Jules.

For one dizzy second he genuinely could not tell.

Then she stepped into the light.

“The doctor broods,” she said.

“I think someone aboard this vessel is dangerous.”

Julie smiled faintly.

“Oh, undoubtedly.”

“You seem remarkably calm about murder.”

“Death interests me.”

“That is not a comforting statement.”

“Was it meant to be?”

She moved beside him against the corridor wall. The ship swayed gently beneath their feet.

Up close, Mercer noticed the faint smell of lavender on her gloves.

Still wearing them.

Still hiding her hands.

“You suspect someone already,” she said.

“I suspect everyone.”

“Good answer.”

Mercer studied her carefully.

“What are you hiding, Lady Julie?”

For the first time that evening, her composure flickered.

Only slightly.

But enough.

“You should ask my brother,” she said softly.

“Why?”

“Because Jules is better at lying than I am.”

A door clicked open farther down the corridor.

Lord Jules Turner emerged from the shadows.

He looked from Julie to Mercer without surprise.

“There you are,” he said gently.

Julie straightened immediately.

The change in her was subtle but unmistakable. Like iron filings aligning toward a magnet.

Mercer felt suddenly intrusive.

Jules approached.

“My sister dislikes storms,” he explained.

“How fortunate she has you,” Mercer replied.

Jules smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “Fortunate.”

For an instant the twins looked at one another in silence so intimate it bordered on frightening.

Then Julie slipped her arm through Jules’s.

Shared a cradle, Mercer thought uneasily.

Perhaps never truly left it.

As the twins walked away together down the corridor, Mercer noticed something at last.

Julie’s glove had shifted slightly near the wrist.

Beneath the silk—

A dark bruise circled her arm.

Finger-shaped.

Not old.

Mercer stared after them into the dim corridor as thunder rolled somewhere far across the sea.

Behind one cabin door, someone began quietly crying.

Behind another, a revolver cylinder clicked softly into place.

And somewhere aboard the Eidolon, hidden among velvet curtains and polished wood and aristocratic smiles—

A murderer waited.