The Isle of Devils (27 page)

Sims looked Dunkley in the eyes. “I tell you that I slept more deeply last night than I have in a dozen years. After we concluded our game of whist, I was in no shape to have left my bedchambers last night.” He spoke with a deep conviction. If he was lying to us, then I judged that he was a magnificent deceiver. 

Dunkley appeared as convinced as myself. He was silent for a moment, and he appeared to be collecting his thoughts. “What brought you to Bermuda, Mr. Sims?” he finally asked.

“I am here to recuperate.”

“From what?” I inquired.

“Perhaps I have neglected to mention that I am a three-quarter for the Rugby Club that we founded at Sydney University in 1864.”

“Ah,” I said, raising my eyebrows with sudden comprehension, his great frame very similar to that of some of the other long, slab-sided, loose-limbed men that I could recall opposing.

Sims looked at me with interest. “Have you ever played rugby, Doctor?”

“Indeed,” I replied. “I once lined-up at pivot for the Blackheath Club.”

“That is a prestigious Club, Doctor. Did they not draw up the original rules for the game back in 1863?”

“I believe that is correct, Mr. Sims, though it was before my time, and I have never had much of a head for dates.”

“Well, in any case, to play for a Club of that caliber requires both great skill and excellent endurance.”

“Before I injured my
tendo Achillis
, I was reckoned fleet of foot,” replied I, modestly.

“I too know something about injuries from our sport. That is how I did in my knee. We were playing a team of lads from the university in Cambridge, Massachusetts, when I suddenly felt like I slipped my right knee-cap.” 

“May I examine it?” I inquired. The man assented by rolling up the right leg of his trousers. I leaned across the table to feel the capsular space and the motion of the knee for a few minutes before finally giving my opinion. “Your medial collateral ligament, I believe.”

“Yes, that’s what exactly what Dr. Holmes said,” replied Sims.

“Dr. Holmes? Not Oliver Wendell Holmes?” I queried.

“Yes, that was his name. I still have his card in my room, in fact. He was a rather tiny old man who had come out to see us take on the Harvard lads. He was therefore immediately at my side when I collapsed. Do you know him?”

“Not in person, of course, but by reputation. He is one of the great reformers of modern medicine, and a gifted writer to boot.
The Autocrat at the Breakfast Table
, for example.”

“Ah,” nodded Sims, reflectively. “He did seem surprised when I failed to recognize his name. But I’ve never been one for books, of course.”

“Too bad,” I mused, shaking my head. “I would have loved to have met the great man myself. I’ve often been tempted to take up the pen myself, especially with my injuries accumulating. In fact, I once injured my own medial collateral when Big Bob Ferguson, the three-quarter for Richmond, threw me over the ropes at the Old Deer Park. Like me, you should heal in about ten to twelve weeks, if you stay off it.”

“Yes, that’s what Dr. Holmes said too. Though I’ve never taken well to inactivity. At first, I thought I could shave some of that time by recuperating on board the ship to England where my Club was headed next. But I soon found that walking on the wave-tossed decks caused even more harm. I cannot bear to stay off my feet entirely, so I disembarked at Hamilton in order to allow my knee to heal fully before re-joining my Club. The hotels over yonder were prohibitively expensive, so I made my way to this quiet little stretch of the island. At least it was quiet until a dead man turned up in the room next to mine!”

“And what will you do once your injuries become insurmountable?” I inquired. “Rugby is a young man’s sport.”

Sims leaned back and took a woven pouch from his coat-pocket. At first I thought that he was going to take a pinch of snuff, but instead he removed a small nip of green leaves and slipped it between his teeth and gums. “That is the exact question that I was pondering the other morning in the graveyard. Intimations of mortality, if you will. For many years, my natural gifts have allowed me to absorb a fearful number of injuries. But even the strongest constitution is not proof against the ravages of time. I will soon have to hang up my cleats for good. To be honest, though I would love to re-join my Club in their tour of England and Ireland, I may not physically be able. This knee injury could be the proverbial drop that made the cup run over. But I’ve never played rugby for money. I have a small annuity, as well as some stock invested at Mawson’s. I’ve always played for the sheer sport of the game, which is the best and soundest thing in the world. That is what I will miss the most. The camaraderie of a group of individuals striving towards a common goal, through both good times and bad. When it is finally over, I suppose that I will have to reinvent my life.”

A silence descended upon the three of us as we considered his words. Finally, the constable broke the silence, appropriately as he was both the youngest of us and the least damaged. “Did you know the dead man, Mr. Sims?”

He shook his head and intensely looked Dunkley in the eyes. “I swear to you, Constable, on the grave of my father, that until last night’s game of whist I had never spoken to the man before.”

Once again, I was absolutely convinced of his veracity. “How about any of the other guests?”

He shrugged and shook his head. “Can’t say that I have.”

“You certainly seemed intent on a conversation with Dr. Nemcek when I first arrived at the Globe. And then later I noted you walking with Signore Aicardi in the graveyard. Are you certain that you are not prior acquaintances?”

Sims snorted again and then laughed. “Honestly, Doctor. If I only spoke to people that I am familiar with, then I would never meet anyone new! As I told you before, I have never been one to spend time reading. I enjoy nothing so much as a good conversation. Both Dr. Nemcek and Mr. Aicardi are very interesting individuals. As
you
are yourself, Doctor. I think we had a nice talk
the other day about Mr. Shakespeare and his plays. Does that mean that we have once met? Perhaps in a scrum?” concluded Sims, a tone of sarcasm evident in his voice.

“I think that will be all, Mr. Sims,” said Dunkley. “Can you please ask Mrs. Foster to send in Mr. Cordeiro?”

As the man unlimbered his giant frame from the settee, he once again towered over us for a moment before moving towards the door. “Good day, gentlemen, and good luck in solving this case. I for one would be most curious to know who drugged me.”

Once the door was closed behind him, Dunkley turned to me. “Well, that’s a fine specimen of manhood, I think. And he seemed brutally honest. It’s a rare man that would admit to being the son of a convict.”

I nodded. “That’s true. But did you notice the leaves that he was chewing on?”

“Yes, what were they? Some form of strange Australian tobacco?”

“I think not. I am not aware of a green chewing tobacco. Unless I am greatly mistaken, those were the leaves of the coca plant.”

Dunkley frowned. “I’m not familiar with those, Doctor”

“Chewing coca leaves increases nervous energy, removes drowsiness, enlivens the spirits, and enables the user to bear great hardships with apparent ease and impunity.”

“Are you saying that Mr. Sims could have been immune to the effects of the drug in the wine? That the coca leaves would have prevented drowsiness, but left the effect upon his pupils so that he appeared as affected as you and Dumas?” asked Dunkley, pointedly.

I shook my head in confusion. “I do not know for certain, but I think it is a possibility, at least.”

“Damn! Perhaps Sims is our man after all. It would be diabolically clever to willingly take the drug as a means to get at Dumas, while simultaneously diverting suspicion from himself.”

“There is only one problem with that theory, Constable. I don’t believe that any amount of coca leaves would have allowed a giant like Sims to descend that flimsy ladder in the midst of a raging storm. He is not faking that knee injury, and the ladder simply would not have born his weight.”

§

As we pondered the enigmas raised by the questioning of Mr. Sims, a polite rap upon the door signaled the arrival of the next guest. Constable Dunkley called out for the man to enter. As Senhor Cordeiro bounded into the room, I struggled to think of anything suspicious in his behavior since our first meeting upon the
Caliber
. As I have previously mentioned in these pages, Cordeiro was a tall man, approaching six feet three inches in height, though his relatively slender build made him appear much lither than the gigantic Sims. He was fastidiously dressed in a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers, with the knee-length breeches worn by sportsmen. He had a cloth cap perched upon his head, and not a hair was out of place either there or from his dark brown waxed moustache. He crisply stopped before the settee and awaited an invitation to sit, which was promptly forthcoming from the constable’s wave.

Dunkley stared at the man, as if trying to take his measure. He was clearly a different specimen than the bold, outspoken Mr. Sims. Dunkley would need all of his skills to glean any useful information from this suave Latin. “I am Constable Dunkley. As I am certain that you have heard by now, from either Mrs. Foster or the other guests, a man by the name of Gustave Dumas was murdered in this hotel last night. Who exactly carried out this deed is not yet clear, and thus, it is my duty to question each of the guests. Your papers, please.”

Cordeiro drew them from his breast-pocket and handed them over. After a cursory inspection, Dunkley began the inquiry in the same fashion as he had with the Australian rugby-player. “You are Mr. Antonio Jose da Paiva Cordeiro, born 1846, resident of Oporto, Portugal?”

“
Sim
, that is, yes. Correct, mate.”

“But you were born on the Azores, I believe you told me?” I interjected.

Cordeiro narrowed his eyes as he glanced at me. “You have a good memory, Doctor. That is true. I am from the Azores, but my business is much easier to run from the mainland, so I spend most of my time there. Unfortunately, the wines of my island home, as opposed to those of our neighbors in Madeira, are sadly underappreciated. Many British gentlemen and ladies travel to
Madeira to experience the sun so often lacking in your home island, Doctor. And Madeira is a fine choice, of course, much superior to Cairo or the Riviera. But those few that are fortunate or wise enough to visit the Azores are treated to a unique sight, a remarkable geometrical pattern of long linear walls from and parallel to the rocky shore. The walls were built from irregular weather-worn black basalt stones, and are divided into thousands of small plots of land with no potential for arable cultivation. But the walls protect from the wind and seawater, and provide support for the vines, so that wonderfully hardy grapes may grow there to become bold wines.”

Dunkley did not seem overly impressed with this description. “So you are a wine merchant?” he grunted.

Cordeiro drew himself up a bit straighter. “I prefer the term, ‘traveler in wines.’ I have the enviable task of journeying to some of the greatest vineyards in Iberia and its far-flung islands, as well as the old growths of Bordeaux, Burgundy, and the Rhone Valley. There I sample some of the most magnificent vintages, and decide which of them merits inclusion in my list of worthies for importation to my clients in Portugal, or exportation to my friends abroad.”

Dunkley perked up during this statement. “So, do you travel to France often, Mr. Cordeiro?”