Eventually, the constable looked up from his book. He first gazed at his pipe. “I’m afraid that I have smoked this down to its dottle and still do not know how it was done, nor why it was done in such a grotesque fashion. Did you come up with anything, Doctor?”
I shrugged and handed him my list.
After he read it over, he looked up. “You succinctly sum up the difficulties of the situation well, Doctor. I don’t like it. If your list is to be believed, none of them fits every clue. Do you think one of them could be mad?”
I shook my head in vexation. “Monomania can be exceedingly difficult to diagnose, Constable, and there are few limits to its possibilities," I answered. “The mad can occasionally appear completely normal, but every word that they say is a falsehood, and they can be capable of horrific outrages. But I am no alienist and have no training in the modern French psychology, so I could be of little help in ferreting out a madman from amongst the guests. And not knowing who it is, we would have to discount all of the testimony that we have heard and proceed with nothing but the clues, which do not lead us very far.”
“True enough,” said Dunkley, shaking his head sadly. “Perhaps it is the husband of fair Lucy after all.”
My eyebrows rose in astonishment. “Monsieur Dubois? Why would you suspect him?”
“It was his gun that did the actual deed. And it is a rare assassin who comes to a job unarmed. Furthermore, he is the only countryman of Dumas in the hotel. Perhaps the Frogs knew each other. It is as close of an association as I am able to come up with.”
I contemplated this statement, for a thought had suddenly struck me. “You know, Constable, I am not certain that he is actually French. I think Monsieur Dubois may be Belgian.”
“Belgian?” remarked Dunkley, astonished. “Pray tell, what makes you think that?”
I cast my thoughts back two days to the dining room, where the company assembled in the Globe Hotel broke its fast. I described to him what I had witnessed at the Dubois’ table. “You see, Constable, a Frenchman would have ordered a crepe, a little pancake that I was surprised that Mrs. Foster knew how to prepare. Instead, Monsieur Dubois ordered a waffle. But the waffle originated in Brussels.”
Dunkley shook his head irritably. “But why would he and his wife lie about something like that? Feigning to be French causes him to appear more closely associated with the dead man, not less. It’s quite incomprehensible.”
My hackles rose at the suggestion that Lucy had lied to us. “His wife might not be party to his falsehood. They are recently wed, and she too may have been fooled by a set of fabricated identification papers, created to replace the ones conveniently lost in his hotel’s supposed fire. Perhaps he even set the fire in order to lend authenticity to his tale?” As the words lifted from my tongue, a glimmer of a thought began to percolate in my brain about something I had seen that had implications in the case, something to do with papers.
But this thought was dashed by the constable proceeding with our discussion. “In any case, there are multiple individuals in this hotel who are potentially lying to us.” He began to tick them off on his fingers. “Mr. Warburton regarding the beach-glass. The Marquesa regarding her destination. Mr. Cordeiro regarding the fate of the second bottle of wine. Mr. Delopolous regarding his lumbago. And finally, Mr. Dubois and his nationality.”
“Why would they all lie to us?” I exclaimed. “They cannot all be involved!”
Dunkley shook his head morosely. “Fear of being questioned by the police induces people to do queer things. Everyone has something to hide, Doctor. Something in their past, or even the present, of which they are ashamed. They do not want the truth being dragged into the harsh light of day, even if it has absolutely no bearing upon this case.” He leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. “If you are correct, Doctor, and if Mr. Dubois is a Belgian, then none of the guests - excepting Dumas, of course - is actually French. A few of them have passed through France, of course, but none have any strong link to the man.”
I nodded slowly. “Yes, that is very interesting. How peculiar that we would have such an assorted clientele at this hotel.”
“Yes, this week the Globe is aptly named. Mrs. Foster has certainly attracted all sorts of odd guests from almost every corner of the world.”
“Especially Europe. We are missing only a German,” said I.
The constable frowned. “What about Dr. Nemcek? Surely he spoke in German.”
I shook my head. “As a citizen of Austro-Hungary, Dr. Nemcek shares a common tongue with the Germans, but there is a vast difference between the Czechs and the Germans.”
Dunkley leaned forward in his chair and slapped his palm down upon the table: “Dash it all, Doctor! All of this talk brings us no closer to the truth. If anything it only serves to confuse us further. Who knows who did it? We might as well draw lots to decide who to arrest!”
With his words, the inextricably puzzled knot that has enwrapped my brain began to disentangle. I stared at him for a moment. “What did you say?”
“I said that there is no utility to further discussion. Let us face the guests. But first, if you would kindly fetch the Persian slipper from your room. I will add it to the rest of the evidence.”
I thought I saw a dim glimpse of a possible solution, but every time I tried to wrap my thoughts around it, it slipped from my grasp. In any case, I had my instructions to carry out. The constable and I rose from our seats and moved towards the door. When Dunkley threw it open, we found that the dining room was surprisingly deserted. It was as if each of the guests had decided to spend the remaining minutes before the constable’s dénouement in the isolation of their own room. Dunkley looked about and then pulled out his pocket-watch to confirm the time. Only ten minutes remained until the time the constable had indicated. He turned to me, shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “I hope that they haven’t all fled the island, Doctor,” he said with a wry face.
“No fear of that, Constable,” interjected an accented voice. We turned to find Senhor Cordeiro emerging from his room, which lay next to the ladies’ parlor that had become our headquarters. “I am certain that the others will be down presently,” said he, gravely.
Dunkley turned and nodded to me. I ascended the stairs as quickly as my leg would permit and began to make my way through the twisting corridor back to my room. However, before I could hardly leave the landing, the second door in the corridor opened and Lucy Dubois stepped out, quickly closing the door behind her. I abstractly registered that she had changed into a scarlet gown which, combined with her lustrous hair and impossible loveliness, conferred on her the appearance of one of the seraphim descended to earth. My breath caught in my throat. She did not seem surprised or perturbed to find me at her threshold. Instead, a deep smile spread over her face and alighted in her deep green eyes. There was no possibility that she feigned her pleasure at my presence. I found that all thoughts and words had disappeared from my brain.
“What a stroke of luck to find you here, Doctor!” said she with great feeling. “I have been intending to speak with you – alone – one more time before the constable presented his conclusion to the case. Who knows how much time will be left to us afterwards.”
“I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at, Madame,” I stammered. “Do you fear that the constable intends to charge you?”
She threw her head back and laughed gaily. “No, do not be absurd, Doctor! But once the guests are free to depart the hotel, I do not know if we will have a chance to repeat our walk in the garden. There are many things that I would like to say to you.”
In my inmost heart, I believed that she felt identical emotions to mine. I decided to throw reserve to the winds. “And I to you, Madame. You see, I have had no keener pleasure than that time that we shared. Since then I have been all off-color. I realize that what I am about to say is ignoble and you would be well within your rights…”
At that moment, the large bulk of Mr.
Sims arrived from deeper in the corridor to interrupt our tête-à tête. His eyes darted back and forth between Madame Dubois and myself, perhaps wondering why we were blocking his path.
“Good evening,” said he, addressing both of us with a polite nod.
My courage fled and I affected a shameful retreat. “Good evening, Mr. Sims. Perhaps later, Madame?” I bowed and fled down the hall. When I reached my door, I paused for a moment and gazed at the final door. It belonged to the murdered man and had proved to be the ingress to a fantastic world where everything was turned on its head. I hardly knew what to do next. Finally, I turned the key in the lock and pushed into my room. I immediately strode over to the dresser where I had discovered the slipper earlier that morn. Pulling open the drawer, I was astonished to find that the drawer was empty. The slipper had vanished like the genii of the Arabian Nights.
My overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I dropped to the edge of the bed and laughed feverishly. I had reached the end of my tether.
§
CHAPTER XXIII
A POSSIBLE SOLUTION
Eventually, I brought my surfeit of emotion under control and composed myself. I pulled my handkerchief from my sleeve and wiped it over my brow. I had almost exposed my deepest sentiments to a woman whose hand was already claimed. When she refused me, as I knew she must, my shame would have been profound.
I sighed and stood up. It was time. Ignoring the discomfort in my leg, I made my way out of my room and back down the stairs. At the bottom, I turned and entered the dining room, where I found that I was the last of the guests to arrive. Mrs. Foster, Mr. Boyle, and the entire clientele of the Globe Hotel were anxiously gathered in a great semi-circle around Constable Dunkley. I noted that the women were sitting, as was Monsieur Dubois and Mr. Sims. The other men all stood. I hovered by the door, acutely aware that Lucy Dubois was seated directly opposite from my perch. While the interest of the others was focused on the constable, she alone appeared most intent upon me. Dunkley himself was separated from the assembled company by one of the dining tables. He had an expression of the most reflective gravity upon his face.
“Thank you for joining us, Doctor,” he said upon my arrival. He turned his attention to the rest of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, in one hour I must report to Mayor Hyland and the Justice of the Peace my conclusion to this case. Should anyone care to confess, it would save us much time.” He paused but the silence that met this request was absolute. “Very well, I will therefore set out the clues in this case.”
Dunkley reached into his brown wide-awake and carefully extracted the various items that he had confiscated from Dumas’ person and room. The first object was none other than the Colt revolver that had been used to kill the man, once the property of Monsieur Dubois. The large powder-stained gloves that had been stolen from Mr. Sims were next, followed by the man’s silver watch and gold chain, identity papers, money, wax vestas, cheroots, and jade cigar holder. The various receipted accounts from his room were deftly stacked in one corner of the table, with the crudely-scrawled letter from the mysterious ‘B’ upon the top. The Confederate seal and the two pieces-of-eight were laid next to each other, followed by the inscribed jack-knife, the nine shards of sea-glass, and the burned slipper from the fire-grate. Even the man’s green Calvados bottle was set out.
Dunkley turned to me and held out his hand. “The slipper please, Doctor.”
My mouth was suddenly dry. “I am afraid that it is no longer in my room,” I stammered.
Dunkley frowned at me, as if he could not credit my statement. “I see,” he eventually said, following a pregnant pause. “Then pray be seated, Doctor.”
Although my legs were taught with emotion, I could not fail to obey his command and I sank into the nearest chair. Glancing at Lucy Dubois, I imagined that I saw a hint of pity in her eyes.
Dunkley shook off this setback. “No matter, there is already too much evidence for my taste. The trick is to recognize, out of a number of clues, which are incidental and which are vital.” He waved his hand over the table. “The vast majority of these items have no bearing whatsoever upon what I will term the Globe Hotel Mystery. They are merely distractions from the true reason that Mr. Dumas was murdered. In fact, there are only three items on this table that are of any assistance. The first are these interesting coins.” He picked up the silver coins and twirled them between his fingers. “These are coins not commonly seen in Bermuda. In fact, as the Marquesa so helpfully pointed out, these are coins from the days when the great heavily-laden treasure fleets still sailed from the Americas back to Spain. Many of those ships never reached their home shores, but instead lie littered upon the ocean floor after losing their way in one of many terrible storms. And what else comes from those wrecked ships? Why sea-glass! It always bothered me why these bits of glass were left upon the landing table. But the key of the whole matter was this crude note.” He reached over, and held it up for the inspection of the crowd. “Due to all of your kindly assistances, I have studied the writing of every man in this room, and I am confident that none of you, no matter how well you might have disguised your hand, could have possibly written this note. And yet the note explains Mr. Dumas’ reason for being in St. George’s. He was summoned here. Or, to be more precise, he was summoned to ‘the place of the barrel.’ This strange phrase gave me much pause. And then a statement by Mr. Warburton made it all clear.”
I looked over at the English naturalist and noted that he appeared considerably astonished at the constable’s words. But Dunkley was not finished. “Mr. Warburton informed me that the unfortunate Mr. Dumas was highly interested in the art of dowsing. There is only one locale on Bermuda that might be referred to as ‘the place of the barrel.’ That is Cooper’s Island. Cooper’s Island lays very close to here on the other side of St. David’s, the large island just across the harbor from where we stand. If you will be so kind as to listen, I will now tell you the tale of Cooper’s Island and Christopher Carter.”
He paused and nodded in my direction. “Four days ago, the Doctor and I were fortunate enough to witness the recovery of a great lump of ambergris. At that time, I related to him the story of the Three Kings of Bermuda. With his permission, I will repeat it now.” He glanced over at me, and I gave him a silent assenting nod. The account that he proceeded to relate to the assembled company did not differ from the one I had recently heard. However, once it was complete he continued to describe what occurred after the confiscation of the men’s ambergris. “Rumors differ about what happened next. It is most probable that Carter betrayed his fellows Waters and Chard and gave evidence that they were solely responsible for the crimes committed. While the latter two may have been deported in chains, it is clear that Carter was allowed to remain on Bermuda, becoming its first permanent citizen. Furthermore, it was decided that Carter would be compensated for his share of the ambergris. It may be hard to fathom today with so many people crowded upon these isles, but in 1612 he was reportedly offered the entirety of massive St. David’s Island! Even more difficult to conceive, Carter supposedly rejected St. David’s in favor of the far smaller Cooper’s Island, which was readily granted to him. It is said that he spent the remainder of his days digging on that island. But what could he have been digging for?”
Dunkley raised his eyebrows suggestively. “The answer is obvious, of course. The treasure fleets had been returning from the New World since shortly after its discovery in 1492. There is definitive evidence that either the Spanish, or the Portuguese,” here his gaze swung over to Senhor Cordeiro, “landed upon Bermuda as early as 1543, for they carved it into the rugged surface of a rock over in Smith’s Parish. And it is said that on Cooper’s Island there were obvious signs of previous brief visitations. Most notable of these were a triangular pile of stones, too unnatural to be anything but the work of men, and a large inscribed metal plate affixed to one of the smooth-barked yellow-wood trees that once grew in the rocky woodlands of the isles. A plate that was not hung by
English hands. Only two years later, two Spanish ships were spotted by Governor Moore approaching the east of the island – where Cooper’s lies, mark you – only to be repulsed by the garrison that he had established on Castle Island. The garrison had fired its very last shot when the Spanish finally turned their tails and fled, a fortunate occurrence or this island might today be known as Las Bermudas and answer to a different monarch,” he nodded with mock regret at the Marquesa as he said these words. “It was clear in everyone’s minds that the Spanish ships were returning for one thing only – to reclaim their previously buried treasure, which they had marked with the stones and plate. These legends were enhanced when an old white-bearded Spanish sailor was interviewed in England. He told a tale of how he and his companions had brought ashore gold and treasure, burying it under repurposed wooden ship’s hatches between two sandy bays in a valley of what would become known as Ireland Island, where the Royal Navy’s Dockyard now resides. On certain days of the year when the sun rose unimpeded by clouds, the cross that was raised on the island across from this horde was clearly intended to point towards the repose of this still un-located fortune. And if you were to discount these tales as nothing but baseless rumors, you would be mistaken, for parts of the treasure have been unearthed! This was first proven in 1709, when a man named John Hilton dug up a hundred and fifty ounces of Spanish Silver not far from here. And then, in 1726 a Spanish jar came to light on Cooper’s Island, its innards stuffed with gold plate, golden tankards, and doubloons. Is there more to be discovered? Only time will tell.”
The Isle of Devils Page 28
