The Isle of Devils (26 page)

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 subject, 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?”

He nodded. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Elizabeth. And while you are doing that, if you would be so kind as to ask Mr. Sims to step in here?”

She rose briskly from her seat and made her way to the door. Just as she was about to step out, another question entered my mind. “Have you ever been to France, Mrs. Foster?” I called out.

She suddenly stopped and turned to look at me. “France?” her voice lifted. “No, of course not.”

“And yet you know how to cook crepes?” I wondered aloud.

I imagined that she hesitated for a moment. “I learned it from a guest many years ago. A French lady, Madame Dantes, stayed here for a week and was shocked at the limits of my culinary talents. She graciously agreed to teach me some of her skills, and I find that they come in handy with many of my guests from the Continent. Why do you ask?”

I shook my head. “No reason. Just curious, I suppose.”

“Anything else then?” she inquired sharply.

Dunkley looked at me, but I could only shake my head. “No, I think that will be all for now, Elizabeth. Thank you,” said he.

After she closed the door behind her, Dunkley turned to me with a troubled frown. “What are you thinking, Doctor? You cannot possibly suspect Elizabeth Foster! She has lived in Bermuda her entire life! What possible motive could she have for suddenly deciding to murder one of her guests?”

I shook my head. “I suspect no one and everyone right now, Constable. Because I do not have a history with her, as you do, I am free of prejudices. Some of her actions and words seem
suspect, but I agree that she has no conceivable motive. Let’s say no more until we have had a chance to question some of the other guests.”

§

While awaiting the first guest, Constable Dunkley arose and requisitioned a few pieces of paper and a J pen from the writing desk. He had barely resumed his seat when a rap upon the door was quickly followed by the entrance of Mr. Boyle, carrying a great tray of food. At the sight of it, I immediately realized that I was famished and I was touched by this thoughtful gesture. The constable and I snatched a hurried luncheon before the arrival of Mr. Sims into our appropriated interrogation room.

I have already described the extraordinary appearance of Mr. Sims in these pages, so suffice it to say that his great height was especially apparent as he briefly towered over us before sinking into the settee. His massive frame made that piece of furniture appear like a child’s chair. As on the day of my arrival at the Globe, he was plainly dressed in a black-frock coat. He turned the full force of his magnetic amber eyes upon us, and raised his sandy eyebrows high upon his masterful forehead. “Constable, Doctor, how can I be of assistance?”

“May I see your identification papers, sir?” asked Dunkley, politely.

Sims drew them from his coat pocket and handed them over for the constable’s inspection. “You are Bruce Arthur Sims, born 1840, resident of Sydney, Australia?”

“I am.”

“Did you grow up there?” I interjected.

“I did.”

“I too spent my childhood in Australia, when my father went prospecting near Melbourne,” said I, attempting to establish a rapport with the man.

Sims grimaced. “Unfortunately, my father did not journey to Australia by choice. I will be honest with you, gentlemen, so that you do not think that I am trying to hide anything. He was transported.”

I wish that I could report that I hid my surprise well, but I am certain that my astonishment was plain. He clearly saw the brief twitching of my eyebrows. He leaned back into the settee and ran his fingers through his leonine mane of hair. “I am not proud to call my father a convict. But his crime was a common one. One winter day he was caught poaching a deer from a nobleman’s estate. His mother was ill and he thought that some fresh meat would help her recover. A more lenient judge may have considered the extenuating circumstances. But my father had dreadful ill-luck and drew one of the harshest magistrates on the bench. At least he was not hung outright, as might have been the case in an earlier decade. He was loaded on a ship with over two hundred so-called felons, ranging from mere boys like him, guilty of only the most minor offences, to hardened rapists and murderers. Chained between decks in the hold of a rat-gutted, beetle-ridden coaster, he must have felt as if he was riding in a moldy old coffin. Treated like animals, many failed to survive the voyage. But my father had an iron constitution and upon finally landing at Botany Bay he served his seven years of hard labor without complaint. When he finally obtained his Certificate of Freedom, his family in England was no more. Rather than return to the land that had treated him so harshly, he chose to remain as a settler in Australia.”

“I am truly sorry to hear that,” said I.

The man shrugged his massive shoulders. “It is ancient history now, Doctor. My father has passed, and Australia is the only home that I have known.”

Dunkley finally spoke up. “Would you be so kind to write a few words for me?” He slid the paper and pen across the low Japanese tea table that separated us from Mr. Sims.

Sims picked up the pen. “What would you like me to write?”

“How about the phrase: ‘you will be pleased to note?’” said Dunkley casually, as if the words had just entered his head. “And then your signature, of course.”

Sims took up the pen in his massive left paw and quickly wrote out the requested words. Dunkley picked up the paper and studied it for a moment, before carefully folding it and placing it in his memorandum book. “You have large hands, Mr. Sims,” he observed.

“I think they are rather proportionate to my frame,” replied Sims, stiffly. “What of it?”

Dunkley reached into his wide-awake and drew forth the powder-stained gloves. “Have you ever seen these gloves before?”

Sims’ eyes widened at the sight of the gloves. “I have indeed! They are mine,” he answered frankly. “Where did you find them?”

Dunkley seemed a bit taken aback at the ease of this confession. “You admit that these are your gloves?”

Sims narrowed his eyes and studied the constable. “I freely admit that these gloves belong to me. But they went missing two days ago. I have not seen them since.”

“Where did you misplace them?” asked Dunkley, suspiciously.

“I had been walking early one morning in the graveyard across the way, as I have been wont to do of late, when I sat down upon a bench to meditate. The day had begun rather cool, so I had with me my top-coat and gloves. As I sat there, the sun’s rays began to warm me, and I quickly shed those outer layers. I distinctly recall setting the gloves upon the bench next to me. Eventually, my leg began to tighten, so I rose to examine the reason for why the graveyard is separated into various parts by walls. When my curiosity had been settled, I returned to the bench to collect my coat and gloves. Imagine my surprise when the coat was there, but the gloves were missing! I looked around, but no living soul was in sight, and I could not recollect hearing anyone approach while I was away from the bench. As you must know, Constable, the graveyard is not that large.”

“Why did you not report it to the police at the time, Mr. Sims?” asked Dunkley, with a serious mien.

The giant snorted, the sound of which brought back thoughts of last night’s storm, so massive was his granite-like nose. “I thought it was a prank. Who would go to all of the trouble to steal a pair of worthless gloves, gloves so large as to fit very few men, and ignore the much more valuable top-coat? No self-respecting thief would do such a thing. I figured the gloves would turn up eventually. And so they have,” he concluded, motioning to the pair in Dunkley’s hands.

“And so they have indeed, Mr. Sims,” replied Dunkley. “They have turned up in the luggage of Mr. Dumas, and as you can plainly see, they are heavily stained with gunpowder. I suspect that our murderer wore these gloves while he shot Mr. Dumas in order to avoid marking his hands.”

“By Jove!” Sims exclaimed with violent agitation, and he slammed his palm down upon the table. “Someone is trying to frame me! Do I look stupid enough to shoot a man and then leave my
gloves at the scene of the crime? Not to mention that I was three sheets to the wind last night from whatever was put into my wine. You cannot possibly think that I did it!”

“I am not certain, Mr. Sims,” replied Dunkley, calmly. “The good Doctor here tells me that you were certainly drugged last night. Yet it was your wine that put Mr. Dumas to sleep. And it was your gloves that protected the hands that shot the pistol. You interest me very much, Mr. Sims.”