“I’m not talking about the armor, Tim,” I said. “I’m talking about the whole island. Why isn’t there anyone here to meet us? And why did your friend send that old fishing boat to pick us up?”

Tim smiled. “Relax, kid,” he said. “The house is a bit quiet, that’s all. But my sixth sense would tell me if there was something wrong, and right now I’m feeling fine . . .”

*  *  *

Just then there was a high-pitched scream from another part of the second floor. It was Brenda. She screamed and screamed again.

“How lovely!” Tim exclaimed. “Brenda’s singing for us! I think that’s Mozart, isn’t it?”

“It’s not Mozart, Tim,” I shouted, beginning to run toward the sound. “She’s screaming for help! Come on!”

We ran down the corridor and around the corner. That was when we saw Brenda, standing in front of an open bedroom door. She had stopped screaming now but her face was white and her hands were tearing at her hair. At the same time, Libby and Sylvie appeared, coming up the stairs. And Eric was also there, pushing his way forward to see what the fuss was about.

Tim and I reached the doorway. I looked inside.

The room had a red carpet. It took me a couple of seconds to realize that the room had once had a yellow carpet. It was covered in blood. There was more blood on the walls and on the bed. There was even blood on the blood.

And there was McDougal. I’m afraid it was the end of the story for Rory. The sword that had killed him was lying next to him and I guess it must have been taken from the suit of armor.

Brenda screamed again and pulled out a handful of her own hair.

Eric stood back, gasping.

Libby burst into tears.

And Tim, of course, fainted.

There were just the eight of us, trapped on Crocodile Island. And I had to admit, our reunion hadn’t gotten off to a very good start.

AFTER DARK

“It was horrible,” Tim groaned. “It was horrible. Rory McPoodle . . . he was in pieces!”

“I don’t want to hear about it, Tim,” I said. Actually, it was too late. He’d already told me twenty times.

“Why would anyone do that?” he demanded. “What sort of person would do that?”

“I’m not sure,” I muttered. “How about a dangerous lunatic?”

Tim nodded. “You could be right,” he said.