The Isle of Devils (33 page)

I cocked my head. “I cannot tell if you mean that as a compliment or an insult, brother.”

“If you catch the murderer, consider it a compliment. If not, the latter,” said he, laughing.

I snorted. “I will do my best to assist the constable, if only to prevent a terrible falling out between us! Tell me, brother, do they still permit dueling here in the colonies?”

“Hah! Sorry, old chap, but the same laws apply here as in mother England. No duels since 1815, I’m afraid. You will just have to catch the chap that offed poor Dumas to avoid a quarrel.”

“Speaking of that, I have a favor to ask of you, Henry. I met a librarian over at Dockyard, when I first arrived. His name was Shilling, I think. Do you know him?”

Henry frowned at first, and then laughed. “You must mean old man Penny. Yes, of course, I know the old complainer.”

“Could you send him a telegram? I want him to identify something for me.”

“What is it?”

I described the flame-arising-from-a-ring symbol that we had found on the jack-knife in Dumas’ room. “It must mean something. I want him to tell me what it is.”

Henry nodded. “Certainly, brother. If anyone on this island can figure that out, it would be Dr. Penny. He’s a bit odd, but still sharp as a tack. I will send your enquiry off tonight from Fort George. It’s a bit of a detour from my way back to Fort St. Catherine but, Ham, you will appreciate the name of the road that the Fort lies off – the Khyber Pass.” He motioned off to the west, where the sky’s last red streaks had faded away and night had settled upon the white roofs. A few faint stars were gleaming in what was still a violent sky. “Not far from where you convalesced in Peshawar, if I recall my geography correctly,” he concluded.

I nodded. “That’s correct, brother.” But I didn’t elaborate. My mind was elsewhere. Henry’s reminder of the base hospital brought with it thoughts of Miss Violet Devere. I gloomily wondered where she had gone. Did she still think of me? Or had she moved on to some dashing
officer with a strong pair of legs and a stronger bank account than I? Worse yet, if she still cared for me, was my foolish attraction to the married Madame Lucy Dubois a terrible betrayal of Violet? I felt as if I had marked my zero-point.

Henry obviously could sense my inner turmoil and bade me farewell for the night. I staggered back into the hotel and upstairs, scarcely more aware of my surroundings than I had been during the previous drugged evening. I retired to my room, where I vaguely noted that the light of the moon was shining brightly through the windows. Falling into a brown study, I plunged furiously into the latest treatise upon the utility of bone marrow examination for the diagnosis of blood cell proliferations. For a few moments I thought that I was successful at purging my mind of all thoughts of her smile, the sweet tones of her voice, the strange mystery that overhung all. But who was it that I tried to forget… Violet or Lucy?

§

The day was just breaking when I awoke the following morning, and I was amazed to see sunlight streaming through my window shade. The day before had been such a chaotic blur that I never fully realized that the terrible storm of two nights prior was but a distant memory and the natural glorious sunshine of the island had returned. I recalled lying awake, tossing and tumbling half the night, brooding over the strange problem in which I had become inexorably enmeshed. I devised a dozen theories, each of which was more impossible tha
n
the last and all of which had fled from my brain when the first beams of sunlight began to penetrate my eyelids. I shifted, and the monograph that I had been reading in bed fell from my chest. I suddenly recalled my duty of the morning, namely to assist Constable Dunkley in the examination of the remaining guests. It was a task that I had little stomach for, since one of those yet to be questioned was Madame Lucy Dubois, and I wondered how I was to face her, with her eyes lingering upon me the entire time.

However, I have never been one to shirk my responsibilities, and I swung out of bed and began to prepare for the day. I reached into the chest of drawers to remove my suit for the day, when I
startled
back as if bit by a swamp adder. I noted that my clothes appeared more untidy than usual. Not that I am in the least bit prim, but the rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan has made me rather more lax than befits a medical man. Nonetheless, it was not the disarray of my garments that shocked me. For there in my drawer, lying calmly next to my own clothes, was a red heelless Persian slipper made of the finest velvet. My mind whirled at the wonderment of how it had found its way into my room, and what its presence could possibly mean. I determined to show it to the constable immediately in hopes that he could puzzle it out. In the meantime, however, I decided that carrying the slipper through the hotel for all to see was a poor idea and I tucked it back into the drawer from which it came.

As soon as I was ready, I made my way back through the twisting hall and down the stairs. Upon entering the dining room, I happened to catch glimpse of Boyle carrying a withered potted plant out of Senhor Cordeiro’s room. “What ails, Mr. Boyle?”

He looked up with a start. “Ah, good morning to you, Doctor. Nothing ails, as far as I know.”

“It seems to me that the sorry specimen in your arms would disagree,” said I, motioning to the dead plant.

“Hah,” he laughed heartily. “I’m afraid that this patient is past your powers of resurrection, Doctor, even knowing what you did for little
Benji
a few days back.”

He seemed at ease, but a queer glint in his eye caught my attention and induced me to continue the conversation. “What do you think happened to it?”

“Don’t reckon I know. Funny things, plants. When you don’t want them to grow, there is no getting rid of them, like the weeds in our vegetable garden. And when you want them to grow…” he trailed off and looked significantly at the plant, which I recognized as a variety of orchid.

Something rang false in his explanation, for the climate of Bermuda seemed conducive to the growth of virtually all plants. “Hmmm,” I replied. “May I take a look at it?”   

“Of course, Doctor,” said he, with a hint of a stammer, setting the pot down upon the nearest table.

A quick glance at the rare and precious former bloom itself confirmed Boyle’s surmise that it was dead. But something in the soil caught my eye. I had once read an elementary book on botany and, since my memory is like a steel trap, the words seemed fresh in my brain. I knew that a careful balance of the acidic and alkaline in the soil was crucial to the health of a flowering plant. But mixed in with the usual brown dirt were some small red specks, almost crystalline in nature. I pinched a small amount between my thumb and index finger and rubbed them together, trying to ascertain where I had seen something like this before. The answer seemed to elude me, like a will-o-the-wisp.

“Mr. Boyle, where did this soil come from?”

He adopted a surprised look and shrugged his shoulders. “The back garden, I believe. We will have to ask Mrs. Foster to be certain.”

However, before I explore this topic any further the side door opened and Constable Dunkley entered the room nodding his good mornings to us. “Come now, Doctor,” said he, with a
hint of peevishness. “Have you become a naturalist too? I thought
instead
you were
about
to help me question
such a man?
”

I straightened up and addressed him as if he were my superior officer. “I await your command, Constable.”

“Excellent,” he replied, pulling out his pocket watch and glancing at the time. “Boyle, would you please summon Mr. Warburton? It appears that he is running late.”

“Certainly, sir. I won’t be but a minute.” He scooped up the pot containing the dead orchid and rapidly mounted the stairs.

I finally registered the fact that Mr. Warburton was not prompt for our appointment and a sudden horror descended upon me. “Good heavens, Constable! Do you think Mr. Warburton was murdered last night? He feared as much!”

His brows knitted. “Nonsense, doctor. The man simply overslept. You will see in a minute.”

“I hope you are correct, Constable,” I replied with emotion. “I trust that there is not a madman loose in this hotel. Ah, that reminds me! You will never guess what I found in my room this morning?” said I, explaining my discovery of the Persian slipper.

When I had concluded my short tale, Dunkley appeared very disturbed. “I cannot fathom what this means, Doctor. Why would someone do such a thing?”

“And how?”

He shook his head. “That would not be too difficult. We have already hypothesized that the murderer is in possession of either a set of duplicate keys or is a skilled lock-picker. For how else would he have drugged Mr. Sims’ wine? But why would he want to call attention to himself in such a fashion? What could he possibly stand to gain? It is like the flamboyant touch of the coins on Dumas’ eyes or the initials on his forehead.”

“I think that he must be mad.”

“No, that is too easy an explanation, Doctor. There is a deep intelligence lurking behind these crimes. Perhaps he feared that we were about to search all of the rooms and could not dispose of it in any other fashion? Still, that does not explain why…” Whatever else the constable
planned to say was lost when he noted that Mr. Warburton was finally descending the stairs. “Ah, sir, did you forget about us?”

“You have my sincerest apologies, Constable. I do not know how to explain it. My clock has been accurate for so many years, only to fail me on this morn,” said he, pulling out a fine pocket-watch attached by a gold Albert chain and gazing at it sadly.

“That is alright, Mr. Warburton. Perhaps you only forgot to wind it last night amongst all of the excitement?”

The man nodded absently. “Perhaps you are correct, though I have been through more dire straits than last night without forgetting…”

“Such as when?” interjected the constable.

Warburton looked up at him and frowned. “Ah, well,” he laughed, “anyone who has sailed across the Atlantic has faced at least one restless night when a strong squall is blowing, wouldn’t you agree, Constable?”

Dunkley shook his head. “I would not know, sir. I was born on the island and have never left. Come now, sir, let us repair to the parlor for our discussion.” He spread out his hand as if to indicate that Warburton should enter first.

Once the three of us had settled into our respective positions upon the chairs and settee, Dunkley asked to see the man’s papers. I used this time to study Warburton’s features again. He was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, with curly blond-hair and a thin moustache. His hazel eyes seemed confident, and he had a strong handsome face. He was attired in the same dark blue pea-jacket with a green cravat that he wore when I first saw him. He had on well-cut gray trousers, brown leather gaiters that that covered the tops of his elastic-sided boots, and a straw hat. After inspecting the papers for a moment, Dunkley finally looked up at the man. “You are Mr. George Warburton, born 1847 in Cheshire, England?”

“I am, sir,” he answered, with his slight whispering voice.

“And where was your last residence?”

“The Langham Hotel, London.”

“I see,” said the constable. “Would you be so kind to sign write this phrase for me and sign it?” Dunkley pushed the piece of paper with the other guests’ writing upon it towards him. When Warburton had completed this request, Dunkley glanced at it and then continued his questions. “And can you tell me your business here in Bermuda?”