The Isle of Devils (18 page)

“Exactly!”

“That is the realm of charlatans, not men of science such as myself. I thought you were going to consult me regarding a medical condition?”

“And what if I told you that I had proof?”

“Proof of what, sir?”

“The spirits calling to us from beyond the veil that shrouds death. Tell me, Doctor, have you heard of automatic writing?”

“The process by which a writer produces words without a conscious awareness of what he or she is writing?”

“Indeed. I believe it is the work of spirits taking control of the medium’s hand.”

“Frauds,” I scoffed.

“And if they were to write something that they could not possibly know of?”

“Clever frauds,” I countered.

“I tell you, Doctor, that I visited a medium in New York who wrote something that only one living being – me! – knows.”

“And why did you visit this medium in the first place?” I inquired.

“That is not relevant to the discussion at hand,” he snapped.

“I still would suspect that you are the victim of fraud.” 

“This is not a fraud, Doctor,” the man said, morosely. “I am being stalked by a ghost.”

“Stalked? How so?”

“He is trying to poison me!”

I was astonished. “Why would you think that?”

“Every drink that I am served smells of bitter almonds.”

I stared, aghast, at my partially-drunk glass of port. He noted my alarm. “Do not fear, Doctor. I am not drinking, hence you are safe. I do not drink anything that I have not personally inspected.”

“I see…” said I, though I plainly did not. “I am afraid that I fail to understand how I can assist you.”

“Although I control my intake of liquids carefully, I still require sustenance. And that is much more difficult to monitor. So, I ask if you are an authority on the assorted poisons used by mankind?”

“I have the ordinary knowledge of the educated medical man,” I replied, with some stiffness. “Do you wish me to provide you with an antidote to Prussic Acid? I have heard that you can inhale the vapors of crushed amyl nitrate pearls…”

“Bah,” he scowled, waving me off but becoming quite garrulous in his angered state. “I know all about the pearls. I go nowhere without them. No, I fear that my ghost is far too clever for that. He must know by now that I am prepared for cyanide. He was widely traveled. What if he recalls the properties of strychnine or worse, of aqua tofana? It is odorless and tasteless. How will I see it coming?”

“You cannot, sir, unless you measure everything you ingest with the Marsh test, which is not a very practical solution. Nor is there a reliable anecdote to arsenic, though I have heard that garlic may provide some protection.”

“Yes, yes,” said Dumas, irritably. “I know of all this. But I have devised a better solution to countering the effects of the ‘
poudre
de succession
.’ Tell me, Doctor, do you not sometime use arsenic to treat your patients?”

“Of course,” remarked I, with some coldness, for I was repelled by his suggestion which appeared to imply that physicians were no different than poisoners. “Fowler’s solution is an important part of the treatment of malaria and other personal problems that a gentleman may sometimes acquire.”

“But here is my question for you, Doctor. Does it always work?”

“Of course not. While the science of medicine progresses every year, it is still very much an imperfect art. Some fail to respond.”

“And do not some respond for a time, and then fail?”

“Yes,” I agreed, cautiously.

“Why?” inquired he, pointedly.

I thought about this for a moment. “I suppose their ailment must grow resistant to the dose.”

“Exactly!” said Dumas excitedly. “And if the body can become resistant to a small dose of arsenic, can it not then tolerate a larger dose?”

“Ah,” said I, finally understanding where the discussion was headed, “you speak of
Mithridatism
. Of course that tactic eventually proven unsuccessful for
Mithridates
, the King of Pontus, who having been defeated by Pompey, tried to commit suicide using poison but failed
because of his built-up immunity, and so had to resort to having a mercenary run him through with his sword.”

Half of Dumas’ mouth curled up with a cruel grin. “Do not fear, Doctor. I have no plans of running myself through. What I wish to know is what dose to begin with, and how rapidly to escalate?”

“I am afraid that I do not have that knowledge readily available. My instructors at
Netley
must not have felt it was a matter that would arise frequently upon campaign,” said I dryly. 

He seemed oblivious to my attempted humor. “Can you find it in the literature of toxicology?” said the man, anxiously.

“Yes, I am certain I could, if the local hospital is sufficiently supplied with the necessary texts, though it would take a few days.”

“The sooner the better, Doctor. I will pay you well. I wish to embark on the program at once, before he learns a new tactic.”

I licked my lips, suddenly nervous. “There is one thing that I do not understand. If it is truly a ghost that plagues you, why does he use poison? Does he not have more supernatural tactics at his disposal?”

He stared at me unhappily. “You mock me, sir. You do not have to believe in order to aid me. What of your Hippocratic Oath?”

“I did not say that I would not assist you, Monsieur Dumas. But perhaps it would help me to understand if
I
knew why this ghost tormented you so?”

Dumas suddenly rose from his seat, his face turning livid with fear and his yellow eyes blazing with fury. He violently waved his cane in my face. “That is none of your damned business!” And with no other words of leave-taking, he stormed out of the room and up the creaking stairs, leaving me sitting alone in the darkening dining room. There goes a man in mortal dread of something or somebody, I thought. Despite the lingering heat of the day, for a moment I thought I felt a cold breeze pass through the room which sent a brief chill right down my back. After my long, strange day, I could almost imagine that the tales of ghosts and devils upon this isle were all too real.

§

After the excitements of the day, I retired to my chambers with a glass of warm milk and a biscuit to try to calm my overwrought nerves. I was quickly between the sheets with every intention of indulging my laziness and sleeping to a late hour. Shaking off the lurid imaginings of Monsieur Dumas, I quickly found myself in dreamland, where the sweet face of Lucy Dubois seemed to look down upon me. However, these fond visions were soon dashed by the rise of a fierce howling wind. This awoke me on multiple occasions throughout the night as it rattled the shutters that protected the glass panes of my windows. After tossing restlessly, eventually I gave up hope of sleep and rose to peer out of the window that looked down into the side garden. I noted that the morning was so wild that the leaves were being stripped from the tree that graced that yard. I heard no other sounds emanating from the other parts of the hotel. Glancing at my pocket watch, I found that it was but a few minutes after six o’clock, and it was little wonder that no one else was stirring on this foul day. 

Both my shoulder and ankle throbbed mercilessly, and I knew that it was futile to consider going back to sleep. Unfortunately, I had no willow bark extract in my kit, and thus little hope of dulling the persistent pain brought on by this sudden turn in the weather. I listlessly lay back down upon the bed for a few minutes more and watched the tepid pale light slowly filter through the shutters. I wondered lazily what Lucy was doing at that very moment. Was she thinking of me? I tried to banish the distressing thought that she might be locked in the embrace of her husband. Eventually, I rose for good and dressed deliberately. I shaved at an even more turgid pace, slowed by the pain in my shoulder, which made it very difficult to raise my arm across my face. I decided not to add more light in order to inspect my handiwork, as I suspected that it would leave me less than satisfied. I descended to breakfast in somewhat of a depressed spirit, for today I found myself easily impressed by my decidedly tempestuous surroundings.

On the contrary, I soon found that some of my dining companions appeared affected by a particularly bright and joyous mood, which I found somewhat sinister given the nature of the day. Although by this time, I had met all of that morning’s dining room occupants, namely Mr. Sims,
Signore Aicardi, Senhor Cordeiro, and Dr. Nemcek, I decided to take a solitary table for myself. Mr. Boyle came over to inquire what I wished to eat, and this time, I brusquely refused anything adventurous. I asked for two plain hard-boiled eggs, lightly salted, and some toast to go with my coffee.

It was at that moment that Monsieur and Madame Dubois entered the room. Fortunately, they took a table as far from me as possible, and I desperately interested myself in that morning’s
Royal Gazette
. I did everything in my power to avoid looking into her entrancing eyes, though at times, I seemed to feel them lingering upon me. Although with some force of will I could just barely avoid her lovely face falling into the range of my vision, taking away that sense only seemed to make the others more acute. I fancied that I could smell her frangipani perfume from across the room. And I could certainly hear the lilt of her melodious voice as she ordered a simple breakfast that maddingly mirrored my own. Her husband on the other hand, futilely attempted to order a type of cake that he termed a ‘waffle.’ Unfortunately for him, neither Mr. Boyle, nor the summoned Mrs. Foster, admitted to knowing how to create such a substance. She offered to make a crepe instead, which he coolly rebuffed, finally settling for Mr. Boyle’s suggestion of a Bermudian breakfast. I suspected that he little knew exactly what that meant and I devoutly wished that I dared to raise my eyes to witness the look upon his face when it arrived.

Mr. Boyle finally turned his full attention upon me, thereby distracting me from what was taking place at the Dubois’ table. “What did you have in store for today, Doctor?”

I shook my head. “I’m not certain, Mr. Boyle. What does the barometer read?”

“Well,” he said, thoughtfully. “The glass is reading twenty-seven, and the mercury is falling. I suspect that it will turn to rain very soon.”

I rubbed my throbbing shoulder. “So, just a usual storm then?”

Boyle pursed his lips. “Well, now that you mention it, Doctor
, t
he shark’s oil suggests that we may be in for a bit of a blow before the day is done.”

I frowned at his near-incomprehensible speech. “Shark’s oil? A ‘blow?’ I am afraid that I am not following you, Mr. Boyle.”

“Ah, you see, if you catch a puppy shark between June and September during either a full or waning moon, you can cut out its liver and hang it in the sun. This draws out the oil, which is
then collected in a sealed bottle. If you hang it outside, you can rightly see if a blow is coming or not. On a fair day, such as yesterday, the oil is as clear as the sky. But it turns cloudy when stormy weather is on its way.”

“And today?” I prompted him.

“It’s as white as milk.”