The Isle of Devils (20 page)

Dumas proved to be a cautious but excellent partner and the game progressed to our advantage. My hand was constantly full of color cards, while Cordeiro seemed to draw nothing by the smallest of the small. In order to make it more interesting, we had determined in advance to allow a small gentleman’s sum to ride on the outcome of the game, and it appeared likely that we would prove victorious after we achieved a small slam in two games running, so as to take the first rubber. At least an hour ticked by, with the team of Cordeiro and Sims steadily losing most tricks to the finesse of Dumas and I.

Dumas became steadily more talkative as his fortunes improved, though it would be an overstatement to call him garrulous. Of course, any English gentleman knows that it is strictly against the rules to comment on the cards you were dealt in any way. One should not remark
about one's good fortune or bad fortune until the final score is tallied. But the misanthropic Dumas did not appear to understand such courtesies, and after one deal, he smiled cruelly. “When the other fellow has all the trumps, it saves time to throw down your hand.”

“Hang it all!” swore Sims. “You have the most incredible luck, sir, while I’ve had a nasty facer! All this losing is making me thirsty. I need another drink.” He began to rise.

“We cannot keep raiding Mrs. Foster’s bottles,” pointed out Senhor Cordeiro.

Sims paused. “Damn again! You are right. But I know just the solution. I have the perfect bottle for a night like this in my room.”

“As do I,” Cordeiro rejoined. “This storm seems like it could be another Deluge. And if the world is about to end, I will not let this bottle go to waste!”

Realizing that another drink would perhaps be nice before trying to retire to the solitude of my thoughts, I spoke up. “Perhaps you gentlemen could both collect your bottles and Monsieur Dumas and I will decide which one is the superior?”

Sims smiled. “Good idea, Doctor.”

Sims bounded up the stairs, while Senhor Cordeiro passed into his room on the ground floor.
Dumas and I remained at the table, unable to contribute anything to the competition. Dumas had relapsed into a moody silence. The man’s unforthcoming nature precluded any attempts at conversation, and he appeared content to silently smoke his cheroot while awaiting their return. The wild night had not abated. The wind was still howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the windows. At times I felt as if the building itself was going to blow down. Seldom have I found my temperament so affected by my environs, but my surmise is that even a man with nerves of steel would have been shaken by that terrible night. My companion, his reticence to speak making him seem like nothing so much as a giant carrion crow, was not lightening the mood of the room. Fortunately, it was not long before Sims and Cordeiro were back.

Senhor Cordeiro was the first to present his bottle, which had a curiously rounded bottom and was protected by a wicker-like coating. “This is the finest bottle of my collection, which is, as a whole, absolutely first-rate. This is a Bual Madeira from 1789. As you may know, the wines of Madeira are unique in all the world. Since our islands were a regular port-of-call of ships travelling
to the East Indies, we were often required to supply these ships with casks of wine. But the earliest ones had an unfortunate tendency to spoil at sea. And so, we began to add a small amount of distilled cane sugar alcohol in order to stabilize the wines. After a long, hot, rocking sea voyage, the wine would transform into something different, something special. However, sailing casks of wine solely for the purpose of heating and aging is a costly venture. Therefore, nowadays most Madeira wine is made by storing the wine in a special room, which we call an
estufa
, where the natural heat of the island’s intense sunlight produces, over a period of several years, a similar effect. But very rarely, you can still find a bottle made in the old fashion,
a vinho da roda
, a wine that has made a trip round the globe. And it is truly magical. This is what I p
ropose that we drink tonight.” He puffed his chest proudly, with the air of a true
bon vivant
. 

I was highly impressed and doubted that Mr. Sims’s wine could match such an impressive pedigree. Nevertheless, Sims looked confident as he held up his slightly dusty amber-colored bottle. “I cannot claim to come from a land that makes such magnificent wines, though I would say that my countrymen are starting to change that. But what I propose to drink tonight is not from Australia; rather it is from the home of great wines – France. Some might call this a claret, but do not mistake this for some of the cheap raisin-wines exported by one of the
fraudeurs
of Marseilles now that the vineyards of Bordeaux have been devastated by the
phylloxera
plague. This wine may not be as quite as old as Antonio’s, but the grapes were picked in 1811 in one of the greatest of the
premier cru
vineyards, Chateau d'Yquem. And 1811 was not just another year for Bordeaux wines. For that year the Great Comet Flaugergues passed overhead!”

At this mysterious pronouncement, Senhor Cordeiro audibly grunted in surprise. 

“Yes,” Sims continued, “this is a comet vintage from the greatest Sauternes vineyard in the world. The comet’s passage transformed what is normally a splendid wine into something wonderfully robust, something exceptional. I won two bottles of this extraordinary wine in a bet with a good friend. One bottle I drank with him, as a consolation for his loss. The other I have carried with me on my travels, always wondering when something momentous enough would occur to justify opening it. I suspect that the end of the world, or at least our deaths in this hurricane, would suffice.”

I was flabbergasted. “Gentlemen, how do you expect me to choose? It would be like choosing between Homer and Shakespeare! They are both magnificent bottles, and I would be greatly honored to drink either with you.”

If the fourth person at our table was equally impressed, he certainly did a masterful job of concealing it. Dumas studied the bottles, and the men holding them, carefully. Finally, he broke his silence. “I generally do not drink with strangers.”

Sims looked as affronted as I felt. “What are you suggesting, sir? You are happy to play cards with us and take our money, but you are not willing to drink my wine? So be it then! More for us!”

Dumas weathered this verbal assault impassively. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Sims. As long as you fine gentlemen are prepared to drink before me, I will try your wine. It is, as you say, an exceptional vintage from the only land that can make wine.”

As I said this, I recalled the previous night’s conversation about poisons, and understood the reason, however unjustifiably paranoid, for his rudeness. On the other hand, Senhor Cordeiro stiffened at this pronouncement. “Perhaps I misunderstood you, sir?”

Dumas turned his vulture-like stare upon the Portuguese gentleman. “No, I think not. What you hold there is not wine. It is fortified pig swill. I would rather drink piss.”

Cordeiro turned white with chagrin and surprise. For a moment, I thought that Cordeiro was going to leap across the table and strike the Frenchman. But finally he restrained his temper. “This is intolerable, sir! I came here to share with you a treasure, not to be insulted as if I were a beggar.” He turned to Sims and I. “Good night, Mr. Sims, Doctor,” said he, with a clenched jaw. “Enjoy your wine. But I will not share a glass with that foul brute.” He turned and strode off to his ground floor room.

Dumas mutely watched him go, while the pleas of Mr. Sims and I went unheeded. Finally, Dumas turned to Sims and nodded to the bottle in his hand. “Well, are we going to drink it?” said he, imperturbably.

From the interplay of emotions across his face, Sims appeared to be considering a withdrawal of his generous offer due to Dumas’ discourteous behavior, but he apparently decided to remain polite. “Of course,” he finally said, “let me find a corkscrew.”

When Sims returned it was with Mrs. Foster in tow. She plainly was frazzled and harried by the absence of Mr. Boyle on this tumultuous night, but she bore it well. She produced a corkscrew from a pocket in her apron. “I only keep one in the house, and that one on my person, so as to ensure that I know exactly which of my bottles is being opened,” she explained.

“This one did not come from your cellar, Mrs. Foster, but you are welcome to enjoy it with us,” said Sims, handing it to her.

Mrs. Foster inspected the dusty bottle and nodded her head gratefully. “This is no common vintage, sir. Perhaps I will try some, but only a sip. I must keep my wits about me, in case the storm worsens.” She went to work upon the cork, and when she drew it out, it was long and deeply stained. She first poured it into a decanter, and the golden liquid that issued forth briefly seemed to brighten the room.

Sims had collected four glasses from the bar, and Mrs. Foster poured a generous amount into three of them, and then a dram into her glass. Each one contained a small amount of beeswing. Sims picked up his glass and looked at the three of us. “Gentlemen, and a Lady of course, I hereby propose that we drink to Aeolus. May he turn his wrath from us.” He then took a long swallow of his wine.

“To Aeolus,” I echoed and also rose the glass to my lips. It was an appropriate salute, as what entered my mouth could only be described as the nectar of the gods. It was as if liquid sunshine had been bottled, and I drank deeply from my glass.

Mrs. Foster sipped from her small amount, and only then did Monsieur Dumas deign to try a taste. I watched his face as he did so, and for a moment, the guarded scowl that had seemed a permanent feature melted away, to be replaced by pure rapture. “Rather fine,” was his sole gruff comment, which I felt did the glorious wine a grave disservice.

Mrs. Foster soon left us to our silent contemplation of that bottled bliss, and the three of us ensured that not a drop would be wasted. As the imbibing continued, I finally found myself growing tired, as if we had drunk to Morpheus instead. How exactly I got back to my room that night is a matter of purest speculation, but at least I did not lose sleep ruminating over the matter of Madame Lucy Dubois.

§

When I awoke the next morning, I was in a state of complete confusion. Several factors accounted for this, the first of which was the strange absence of sound. I was not able to quite deduce why this seemed so unusual until I recalled the incredible storm, with its shrieking winds, that we had just endured. I could barely credit the possibility that such a monster had run its course. Secondly, I felt like I was in an absolute stupor. I believe that I would not be boasting if I claimed that I had experience of wines and spirits which extended over many nations, but nothing had ever affected me like that comet vintage.

I rolled over to look at my pocket-watch and was astounded to discover that it was a quarter past eleven o’clock! This was so inconceivable that I staggered over to the window and threw up the shade. The stormy night had been followed by a glorious day, with the sun high in the sky. I blinked at the bright light in stupefaction, for even at the peak of one of my lazy spells I have been generally quite regular in my habits. I do not recall ever sleeping so late, and I could not fathom the cause of this torpor. However, when I finally managed to stagger over to the wash basin and gazed in the mirror hanging above it, the reason was made both crystal clear and hopelessly obscured. For my pupils were but tiny pin-points of darkness in the center of the enormous blue irises. As a medical man, I knew that only opium, or one of its derivatives, produces such an effect!

My first thought was to check my wallet, which I found to be relatively barren, but no more so than was typical for a half-pay surgeon. I had not been robbed. Then why had someone drugged me? It was a complete mystery.

I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to make my way downstairs, desperately hoping for both a café noir and some answers. When I entered the dining room, I found Mrs. Foster and Mr. Sims in deep conversation. The only other individuals present in the room were Mr. Aristides Delopolous, his Grecian name betraying his homeland, and Mr. Mehmet Nazim Bey, a Turkish engineer. I had only met them the prior evening during the gathering after Madame Dubois’ violin playing, but I recalled also observing them talking together in the dining room on my first morning at the Globe Hotel.