The Isle of Devils

by Craig Janacek

  “What is it, Elizabeth?” he responded in kind.

  Rather than immediately answering him, she led us into the dining room and indicated the dark iron fireplace. “I found it in there, when I was cleaning out the ashes from last night’s fire,” she explained. I recalled that during the prior evening a splendid log fire had blazed behind the iron screen throughout the long night in order to help ward off the chill from the great storm. “It must have slipped through the dog-grate, and therefore was not fully consumed.” She pointed to a small object lying before the fireplace that I had originally assumed was a large un-burnt wooden cinder.

  Dunkley bent down to examine it. “What is it?” I finally exclaimed.

  “It is badly burned, so it is impossible to tell for certain, but I believe that it is the remnants of a Turkish slipper,” said he, looking at me meaningfully.

  I immediately realized that this could have been what the murderer wore when he stepped in the drops of blood. “Is there a bloodstain?” I inquired.

  He shook his head. “If there was, it’s gone now. But Doctor, there is only one slipper.”

  The implications of his words finally dawned on me. “If he only burned one slipper, we can find the match. And if we find the match, we will have found the murderer,” said I excitedly. “Unless the other one was completely consumed, of course,” I concluded, trying to tamp down my enthusiasm for the hunt.

  “Indeed, Doctor,” the constable nodded. “But there are more difficulties. Remember our scenario. In the hypothesis that we have constructed, the murderer fled via the window, not through this room. If he did not flee via the window, then how was the door barred? If he did flee through the window, why in the world would he come all the way down here to burn a slipper after he had already killed Dumas? He could have disposed of the slipper anywhere in St. George’s. He could have tied it to a rock and sunk it in the ocean!” He shook his head again. “It’s damn odd!”

  I silently agreed. In fact, between the drugging of my wine the prior night and the muddle of the investigation, my brain felt like it was swimming in treacle.

  “Well, if he did flee via the window, he must have stepped in the garden,” continued Dunkley. “Let us see what we can make out.” He stood up while adding the burnt slipper to his bag of evidence.

  I followed Dunkley and Mrs. Foster through the billiard-room and into the corridor that led to the rear entrance. Three doors led off the corridor, and two were closed, but they were plainly marked with signs. The one closest to the billiard-room door was simply labeled: “Private.” I assumed it led to Mrs. Foster’s chambers, and I calculated that it likely lay directly below Dumas’ room. The next door was propped open by a lead weight and I could see that the kitchen lay beyond. The far door in the corridor was labeled: “To Garret.” We stepped out the rear door and entered the garden, which was divided from Duke of York Street by a low wall. The garden was shaded by a large tree that I thought might be some American variety of sycamore, and a pleasant wooden bench completely encircled it. Snug against the building to our left lay a raised square with a black lid, which I realized must lead to an underground rainwater cistern. Immediately outside the door and beneath the bench, the ground was paved with bricks, but the rest of the garden grounds were simple dirt paths winding between the vegetable beds, now saturated by the recent rain. The ladder leading to Dumas’ window was set in the middle of one of those beds. Upon further inspection, the ladder itself appeared to be quite ancient, and I thought that it was a miracle that anyone could descend it without breaking at least one rung. Clearly the man who used it was not heavy. Before we moved any further out into the garden, Dunkley held out his arm to block the way. “No further, please. Now, Elizabeth, have you been out here today?”

  She sniffed derisively. “Constable Dunkley, do you honestly think that I could have entered my own garden and not noticed that damned ladder? Look at it! It’s smashing the lettuce!”

  Dunkley nodded. “Good…”

  “Good!” she exclaimed. “Maybe for you, but I have a dead man in one of my rooms and a wrecked garden down here!”

  Dunkley tried to recall his words. “Calm down, Elizabeth. I was simply noting that you will not have obscured any footprints. Why don’t you take a minute for yourself, and then join us in the parlor?”

  She glared at him, but strode away without a word. Dunkley raised his eyebrows and shot me a look that seemed to say: ‘women… they are a mystery.’ I, of course, silently agreed with him. Turning back to the garden, Dunkley carefully made his way over to the base of the ladder and bent down to observe the marks in the moist soil. I remained in my place in order to avoid causing any confusion.

  After a few minutes, Dunkley shook his head in exasperation. “I cannot tell anything conclusive, Doctor. Certainly someone passed along this path at some point last night to place the ladder, but it appears that he kept to the border which lines the vegetable beds, likely in order to avoid leaving a track. And his path away from the ladder is even harder to distinguish. I do not see anything resembling a distinct footprint. Oh well, with the pouring rain and blowing winds from last night’s great storm, it was never very likely that we’d find anything in the nature of a distinct impression that would help us with this cipher.” He stood up and rejoined me at the doorway. “Let us adjourn to the parlor, Doctor.”

  We retraced our steps and soon found ourselves stepping up into a warmly-decorated room with a gorgeous cedar-beam ceiling. An east-facing window cast light upon the handsome space, which held a Japanese cabinet, a comfortable cedar settee, an old-fashioned upholstered chaise-lounge, and several velvet-lines easy-chairs. A small writing desk with a fine surface of red-leather was tucked under the window. A fine carpet of amber and green covered the center of the room, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, like a bed of moss. It was surrounded by highly-polished squares that made up the wood flooring. Unlike the billiard-room, there was absolutely no smell of tobacco in the air. Rather the converse held true in this refuge of the ladies, and I could almost imagine that Lucy Dubois’ frangipani scent still lingered in the room. The constable seemed to little notice these details and strode over to one of chairs across from the settee, and I followed his lead.

  “Who should I send in first, Harry?” asked Mrs. Foster.

  But instead of answering her, Dunkley motioned to the settee. “Please sit down for a moment, Elizabeth.”

  She frowned and I imagined that shade appeared to drop over her eyes. But she obeyed him. “Am I a suspect, Constable Dunkley?” she said stiffly.

  “Now, now, Elizabeth, of course not,” he replied with a chuckle. “I just wanted to get a lay of the land. I’ve spent many a night in your billiard-room, but I’ve had little call before today to ever venture upstairs in your fine establishment.”

  “Have all of the guests been accounted for?” I interjected.

  “Yes, they all returned for their midday meal,” she nodded.

  “Well, that’s a shame,” said Dunkley. “No one is going to make this easy on us, eh, Doctor? Elizabeth, please inform them that no one is to leave the hotel again without my permission. I will need to question everyone first.”

  “Perhaps we should start by determining the situation of everyone who spent the night in the hotel?” said I. “I propose that we draw a map to aid our investigation.”

  “That’s a capital idea, Doctor,” exclaimed Dunkley. “What say you, Elizabeth? Can you help us?”

  “Of course,” she replied. She stood up and moved over to the desk, where all of the accoutrements of writing could be found, including a variety of pens and pencils, a blotting pad, a block of purple wax and a small sealing-wax knife with an ivory handle and a stiff blade. Sitting down in the chair, she took out several sheets of foolscap and began to sketch a rough plan of the place. The constable and I stood up and looked over her shoulder as she drew, and as the rooms began to unfold we started to acquire a general idea of the position
of all of the guests of the hotel. When the two pages were complete, Dunkley and I returned to the arm-chairs in order to study them, which I here reproduce:

  “It’s a bit rough, of course,” Mrs. Foster said with apparent modesty, for I found them to be quite well done. “It deals with the most essential points, including who is staying in the various rooms. I did not draw the garret floor, as it is simply a large room running from north to south, with the two windows that you have seen from the street and sharp sides that fit under the slope of the roof. I am happy to show it to you, if you would like, Harry. It is currently occupied by Mr. Bey and Mr. Delopolous, the two gentlemen that you have already met this morning.”

  As I studied the map, I realized that only Senhor Cordeiro had a room on the ground floor, immediately next to the parlor in which we sat and opening directly into the dining room. All of the remaining guests were lodged in the cleverly laid-out quarters of the first floor.

  “If that will be all, gentlemen, I can call the first guest,” said Mrs. Foster, as she began to rise.

  “A moment, if you will, Mrs. Foster,” I stilled her. “I have a few questions.”

  She stiffened and then turned to the constable with an inquiring look. But he only nodded. “I’ve asked the doctor to aid in the investigation. So please answer his questions. You’ve nothing to worry about, Elizabeth. By god, how long have I known you?”

  “All your life, Harry,” she said, unconsciously smoothing her hair. “I remember when you were just a sniveling little boy, always filthy…”

  “Yes, yes,” he interrupted her. “What were your questions, Doctor?”

  “Only a few routine things, of course, Mrs. Foster,” said I, reassuringly. “First of all, you’ve already demonstrated that you possess duplicate keys to all of the rooms….”

  “I have to!” she interrupted. “It is the standard practice at a hotel! Ask anyone! How else do you let the girl in to clean the rooms, or open it when a guest has misplaced their key?”

  “Now, now, Elizabeth,” Dunkley said. “The doctor is not accusing you of anything, are you, Doctor?”

  “Of course not. I was merely trying to establish where the duplicate keys are kept.”

  “Ah, that’s an excellent question, Doctor,” said Dunkley, approvingly. “Did the murderer enter via the corridor or via the window? If the former, then he must be one of the guests, since the outside doors were barred.”

  Mrs. Foster was shaking her head. “No one ever has possession of these keys other than me or occasionally Mr. Boyle, who as you know, was securing his own home last night. I kept them on my person all of last night.”

  “Even while you slept?” I inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “But you also imbibed some of the drugged wine,” I pointed out. “Someone could have taken them off you while you slept.”

  She shook her head again. “Not possible, Doctor. I am a single woman running a hotel by myself. Much of the time, my only guests are men. I have learned to take precautions. My room is barred at night. I may have slept more deeply than usual, but no man got through my door.”

  “And you are certain that you barred it last night?” I persisted. “I for one can barely recall how I made my way back to my room.”

  “I am certain. I did not indulge to the degree that you did, Doctor,” she said dryly, a hint of accusation in her tone.

  I decided to abandon that line of questioning. “Do you have a dark lantern, Mrs. Foster?” I asked instead.

  She frowned. “Of course.”

  “And where do you keep it?”

  “We have several. There is one behind the bar, and one in the kitchen. Why?” she asked, with a suspicious tone in her voice.

  “If the murderer came from inside the hotel, then he would have needed a way to move through the corridor without attracting much attention,” I explained. “A candle would shed too much light. But a dark lantern would be the perfect way to illuminate his path. It’s a common thieves’ tool.”

  “It’s a common tool of anyone who lives in a windy place, Doctor,” Mrs. Foster lashed out. “Or did you not notice the storm last night?” The sarcasm was plain in her voice. “If you ever have to venture out in a storm like that, you too will need a lantern with a sliding shield! And I thought we established that the murderer did not come from within the hotel? He may have picked the lock on Mr. Dumas’ door, but if he left via the window, he did not return! And all of my guests are still here!”

  “We need to explore all of the possibilities, Elizabeth,” said Dunkley, calmly. “Surely you can see that?”

  She was visibly calmed by his words. “Of course, Harry. Any other questions, Doctor?”

  “What are your opinions about the War Between the States, Mrs. Foster?”

  She frowned. “In what way, Doctor?”

  “Were you in favor of one side?”

  “No.” she said simply.

  “Really, madam?” I said with gentle disbelief. “You had no opinion whatsoever?”

  “It was not our war,” she shrugged. “We profited by it, of course. My father was a cotton broker, so the war was good for us. When it ended, things would have turned tough if he had not been wise with his money. So, you could say that I was in favor of neither side winning.”

  “That’s rather cruel. Think of the young men that died.”

  “It was not our war,” she repeated. “We did not tell them to start it. We had no way to end it. Why would we refrain from profiting from it?”

  “Then why, may I ask, do you have a large Confederate flag in my bedchamber?”

  She laughed delightedly. “Is that what you are concerned about?” She looked over at the constable. “Harry, you might need to educate your assistant here about the history of our good isle before he will be of much use to you!”

  Dunkley looked chagrined. “Doctor, you see, before Ralph Foster bought this building, the upstairs was rented to one Major Norman S. Walker.”

  Mrs. Foster took up the tale. “Major Walker was a graduate of the West Point military academy and a close friend of Jefferson Davis, the President of the Confederacy. He was appointed to supervise the Confederate Ordnance Bureau’s operations in Bermuda, and arrived here in 1863. The rooms above you served as the headquarters for the efforts to run the North’s shipping blockade. I freely confess that I became friends with his wife Georgiana. She was a lovely woman, widely read, and the mother of three adorable children. She made their home a meeting place for Southerners visiting the island en route to England, and hosted some wonderful dinners and parties. So, yes, Doctor, I admit that I certainly hoped that Georgiana’s family and friends would come through the war unscathed.”

  “And the bed?” I inquired.

  “Hah! That was Georgiana’s idea. When she was expecting her fourth child, she insisted that a flag be raised to form the canopy of her four-poster bed. She told me that: ‘even if my child could not be born in the South, he would still be born under the Confederate flag.’ And when the Walkers left the island, Georgiana insisted that we take her beautiful bed, and it still graces your room, in her memory.”

  “Has she passed?”

  “Oh no, she is well. She and Major Walker lived in England for many years after the war ended, but recently returned to Virginia. But I doubt that they will ever return to live in Bermuda and I miss her greatly.”

  “And your husband never fought in the American Civil War?”

  “Ralph? No!” she said laughingly.

  At this point, the constable frowned. “I thought that Ralph did fight somewhere when he was off the island?”

  She shook her head violently. “Your memory fails you, Harry. Though tis’ natural, as you were but a lad then. Ralph left Bermuda in 1864 to take up acting in London. The war in America was all but over by then. I can promise you that Ralph did not fight in the American Civil War.”

  She said it with such conviction that it was difficult to doubt her. “I am sorry if I broach a painful su
bject, but how did your husband die, Mrs. Foster?”

  She gazed pensively out of the window. “When Ralph realized that he lacked the talent to be an actor, he returned to Bermuda. We married in 1867, and he first rented the Globe. It was to be out great endeavor together. But he died the following year from the yellow fever.”

  “My condolences, madam.” I paused for a moment. “I have just one more question.” I turned to the constable. “Do you have the note from Dumas’ room?” He took it from where he had folded it into his notepad and handed it to the proprietress. “Do you recognize this handwriting? Perhaps from the hotel ledger? Could it have been written by one of the current guests?”

  She took the paper and gazed at it for a moment, her eyes narrowing. Finally she handed it back to Dunkley. “No, I do not believe that this was written by one of our guests. But I can fetch the ledger if you would like to inspect it?”