Chapter Text
The boat docked on Solider Island. Edward Armstrong brought himself to his feet; grabbing his bags and looking up from the boat.
Armstrong nods thanks to the boatman; He steps off the boat and takes a look at the world around him. The clear turquoise water was shimmering like a sun kissed mirror, the grass was waving and blowing around. The dock was in very good shape, the wood wasn't too creaky. He walked off the dock towards the house. The house was stunning. It looked very modern and new. The walls were clean and even squinting Armstrong couldn't seem to see much dirt on it.
At the front of the house was a large and nice door with polishing of the rich. He walked towards it, grabbing the door handle.
This was the place.
He opened the door, the entryway just as nice as the rest of the house. He noticed multiple pairs of shoes. Armstrong knew he wasn't the first one, but after counting there seemed to be four pairs of shoes. He took his off, assuming that is what they were supposed to do, and switched to indoor shoes. The Doctor could hear talking coming from another room. It sounded like casual chatter so that must be where the other guests were at the moment.
He walked down the bright hallway. All of the places in this house seemed to always be lit, as if shadows didn't exist here. There weren't photos of people on the walls, instead there were plants and statues along the sides. A few paintings hung up as well, but none that he knew. The talking got louder so he knew he was near. Around the corner multiple people sat.
One of the people sitting there, a woman with messier hair and a tight scowl looked up at him. She sat next to a man the Doctor could assume to be her husband who also looked up at him.
"Hello." He stood up, walking over to Armstrong, "I am Thomas Rogers. This is my wife, Ethel Rogers. You are...?"
"My name is Edward Armstrong. I was sent an invite...." His words slowly slowed and silenced. He caught sight of something, well more like someone.
A man sat there. He had dark hair that appeared to be slicked back, eyes dark like black caves Armstrong could get lost in, and a mustache over his upper lip. He had a proper look to him, like he was right out of an office meeting. A hat was next to him that matched his suit and had what looked like his name, stitched into it.
'William Blore'
That must be the man's name, Blore.
"Hello? You seemed to have zoned out on us Doctor," Mr. Rogers said, waving a hand in front of the man's face.
"Oh, sorry. I seemed to get lost in thought. Is Owens here? I would like to meet him."
"Owens...yes him. He doesn't seem to be here. Do you know him?"
Now that Armstrong really thought about it, he didn't actually know anyone with that name on a personal level. Maybe it was one of his patients? Or maybe...
A man then came into the room. He had a glass in hand and a drunken fool of an expression. He was young, much younger than Armstrong or the others. The younger man walked over to Armstrong , extending his hand for a shake.
"Anthony, Anthony Marston." Anthony said, sipping from his glass. Armstrong shook, the young man's grip was solid.
"I am Dr Edward Armstrong." Anthony didn't look that interested in Armstrong, in fact he seemed to not care in the slightest as he turned to the Rogers, "Now then! Is this all of us?"
Mr. Rogers shook his head, "I'm not sure if I am being honest. But if you would like to explore the house, I would see no reason not to. Just stay out of the bedrooms in case someone is in there."
"Did that." Anthony rudely snobbed. Both of the Rogers looked slightly offended but softened when they looked at each other.
"Thank you. I think I will." Armstrong turned to go to the stairs, but hearing the sound of glass being set down and footsteps, turned to see Blore behind him, "Oh, er- you are coming too?"
Blore looked a bit taken aback before responding, "Do you not want me to?"
"Oh! Oh no I don't mind at all!" In fact Armstrong was more than delighted to have the striking man go with him. Blore looked relieved and walked the stairs with him.
The stairs led up to a room with multiple doors. A few of them were still open so they could see a kitchen, game room, and a foyer. The walls were coloured in a nice shade that was visually appealing to Armstrong. The house's overall design was clean. Very clean. Unsettling clean. He tried to pay it no mind.
"What wonderful artwork they have here..." Blore spoke aloud.
Armstrong turned to him, eyebrows raised. "I didn't take you for an artist type,"
"Oh heaven no. I just enjoy looking at art. I could never, no skill in that department. You?"
Armstrong thought for a second. He had dabbled in art when he was a younger boy, but nothing he ever thought to have for a job, what a silly thought, "No, I am a physician. Very far from that job I must say," He chuckles for a second before turning to the handsome man before him. Blore nodded, before his eyes drifted over to something else. Armstrong watched him walk over to a stand in the corner.
In the stand was a rifle. A very nice one to say the least. It was shiny in a way the light reflected off of it as if it was the centerpiece even while being trapped in the corner.
"How odd. Well I suppose everyone has their *things*. Maybe Owens is a fan of guns. I actually haven't met the man yet." Blore said, looking at it.
"Everyone I have spoken to has said the same thing."
"Do they have a thing?"
"No I mean that they haven't met Owens."
Blore was quiet for a few seconds, thinking it over, "Well....that....that wouldn't make any sense. I was hired to be here. Are you not?"
"I was...but for an illness type issue. What department were you hired to?"
"...It unwitty for me to tell you but I am supposed to be here to guard things. Owens jewels. Which now that I think about it was a bit suspicious."
They continue to discuss this, slowly switching topics to avoid unease, while walking to the game room.
The room had a pool table in the middle. The balls were preset with 10 pool sticks; which was an absurd amount to have in Armstrong’s opinion. There was a dart board on the wall with rather sharp darts. He picked one up to find it was an actual blade.
“Ouch-“ He said, watching as blood pools on his finger.
Blore looked over, concern etched on his face, “Are you alright?”
Armstrong nodded, grabbing a bandage out of his pocket, “It’s just blood.”
“It’s just blood?” Blore repeated, questioning, “What an odd mindset. What cut you?”
“The darts. It has mini blades on them.” Armstrong started ripping the bandage. He put it over his crimson wound and showed Blore the dart.
“How odd. Why in the world would someone put sharp blades on a throwing game piece? That’s just looking for trouble, certainly!”
Armstrong sighed, “That’s not the only question I’d like answers to.”
At that, Blore gave a short chuckle, "You said it my friend."