The Isle of Devils (28 page)

The man shrugged. “Of course. Although we have great wines in Portugal and Spain, the
terroir
is different in France, and many a man craves diversity.”

“Have you ever met Mr. Dumas before in one of your travels to France?”

Cordeiro shook his head. “Not that I can recall. Clearly the man was French. Such manners the French have. Were it not for their superb wines, I would have nothing to do with them. Where did you say that he was from?”

“Rouen, Normandy.”

Cordeiro shrugged again. “They do not make wine in Normandy, mate, only Calvados,” said he, simply, as if that was all that needed to be said.

“So, you did not know Mr. Dumas?” said Dunkley, persistently.

“I have told you. I have never met the man.”

“And yet,” Dunkley probed, “you were willing to share with him your best bottle of wine last night?”

Cordeiro turned and gazed at me, as if he suspected that I was the source of this information, which was in fact the case. “I am sorry, Constable, but am I a suspect in this man’s murder?”

“Absolutely. Excepting only the doctor here, who I have asked to assist me with the case, I have not ruled out anyone’s possible involvement.”

“I see,” said Cordeiro slowly, clearly pondering this information. “I wonder, perhaps, if I should then first be inquiring for the services of a solicitor before I answer any more questions?”

Dunkley chuckled. “Now, now, Mr. Cordeiro, I am just getting the lay of the land with some harmless enquiries. I think only a guilty man would need a solicitor for something like this. Now about that wine from last night,” drawled Dunkley, in an off-handed manner.

Cordeiro nodded slowly. “As you may have heard, the call for another bottle of wine last night was raised by Mr. Sims. As the storm progressed, I was reminded of a great storm that I experienced as a child. Although my home lies on the other side of the Atlantic, every decade or so a hurricane manages to acquire enough force to cross over and inflict damage upon our isle. On one terrible night, the walls of the nearby warehouse collapsed and brought down the floor into the cellar, where several great vats were shattered. An entire harvest worth of wine trickled between the flagstones before anyone was the wiser, and without anything to sell, everyone in the village went hungry that winter. As the sound of the terrible winds brought back these memories last night, I realized what a shame it would be to let that magnificent bottle of Madeira go to waste. I am certain that the Doctor has told you that it was a truly special wine. It is too bad that the brute did not choose it, or perhaps he would still be alive.”

Was the man actually suggesting that he had shot Dumas in a fit of rage over the snub of his bottle, I wondered? “Why do you say that?” inquired Dunkley, intently.

But Cordeiro shrugged again nonchalantly. “Mr. Sims informed me that his bottle had been drugged. I would say that Mr. Dumas chose most poorly.”

Dunkley nodded grimly at the obvious truth in those words. “Indeed. And why are you visiting our island?”

“I have made no secret of it. I am trying to break the hold of rum upon this island and open up a new locale to which I may export some of the great wines of Iberia.”

“I hate to inform you about this news, Mr. Cordeiro,” said Dunkley, “but St. George’s is no longer the center of Bermuda. You should be in Hamilton.”

Cordeiro shook his head in response. “No, I am afraid that is not possible, mate. I have not the clout of a great claret importer, such as Westhouse & Marbank. The Goslings brothers made sure that no hotel in that town would give me a bed. They have tremendous power locally and are not afraid to use it to keep away a competitor. But I think St. George’s is rather perfect. Is your town not known for its history of running goods to the American South? Where else on this island would my ‘contraband’ foreign wines find so much favor?”

Dunkley nodded again. “Indeed. Perhaps you would do me the favor of providing a copy of your handwriting,” said he, changing the subject by pushing the paper and pen across the table.

“The same phrase as is written here, mate?” inquired Cordeiro, referring to what Mr. Sims had written.

“If you please.” Once Cordeiro was done, the constable inspected it. From the look upon his face, I could tell that it was no more of a match than Mr. Sims’ hand had been. “And your room, Mr. Cordeiro? It is the one immediately next to us?” said he, pointing to the room upon the map that Mrs. Foster had drawn.

“You’ve got it, mate.”

“Did you request the sole bedchambers on the ground floor, Mr. Cordeiro?”

He shrugged. “No. It is simply where Mrs. Foster put me. Any room would have been alright with me. My needs are not great.”

Dunkley looked down at Cordeiro’s feet, which were clad in a pair of rubber-soled tennis shoes. “I noticed that you wear very quiet shoes, Mr. Cordeiro. Have you been upstairs in the hotel yet?”

Cordeiro licked his lips. “I’ve had no reason to go upstairs, mate. These shoes are the best for playing lawn tennis. I had hoped to find a court today in order to obtain some exercise.”

“So you are a player of
Sphairistike
, Senhor Cordeiro?” said I, finally added something to the questioning. 

He snorted. “Come now, Doctor, only Major Wingfield calls it by that ridiculous name. Everyone else terms it lawn tennis, which is sufficient to distinguish it from the royal tennis that they play indoors.”

“And are you any good?” I persisted.

“Aye, mate. I’m not half-bad. I’ve even played a bit in your homeland, at a little private club southwest of London, in the town of Wimbledon.”

“The All England Croquet and Lawn Tennis Club? You did not play in the Championship tournament?” said I, dubiously.

“In fact, I did, mate,” said the man, without a trace of modesty. “Not the first year, of course. But I almost won the second year, which was just two years ago. I lost to the eventual champion in the semi-finals.”

“Really?” said I, raising an eyebrow questioningly. I fancy that I am a sporting man, and when my injuries prevent my own participation, I follow the endeavors of others with great interest. If Senhor Cordeiro was bluffing, I was certain to call him on it. “I’ve forgotten,” I pretended, “who was the first Gentleman’s Singles champion?”

“That old bore, Spencer Gore, or course,” responded Cordeiro at once. “He thrashed William Marshall (6-1, 6-2, 6-4). But it was not much of a feat. There were only twenty-two entrants, and the final game was postponed for four days due to rain, so he had plenty of time to rest. He took home the prize of twelve guineas and a silver cup, but was not much enamored of the game. In fact, I believe that he called it a ‘monotonous game compared with others.’”

“And your year?” said I weakly, as it was now clear that the man was telling the truth, but I was forced to politely inquire.

“In 1878, Gore failed to defend his title when he lost to Frank Hadow in the finals (7-5, 6-1, 9-7). Hadow possessed a devastating weapon, which he termed the ‘lob,’ and it thwarted all of us who came across it. I’ve now added it to my own repertoire, of course, but at the time I was defenseless and Hadow eviscerated me (6-1, 6-3, 7-5).”

“What about last year? I hear that Hadow refused to defend his title?”

“That is true. Of course, he had only played the year prior as he happened to be in London whilst on holiday from his coffee plantation in Ceylon. When he was asked if he was going to return, he reportedly retorted, ‘No sir. It’s a sissy’s game played with a soft ball.’ I disagree of course, but I developed a terrible pain in the socket of my shoulder last year that knocked me out of returning. I’m afraid that the doctors have been unable to do much about it other than counsel rest. It is just now starting to return to normal, but I’ve already missed this year’s tournament as well. Hopefully by next year I will be ready to mount another challenge.” 

Dunkley was bristled by the track that this conversation had taken and gruffly interrupted us. “Thank you very much, Mr. Cordeiro. You’ve gotten us side-tracked with your interesting anecdotes. I would ask that you cancel your plans for locating a tennis lawn and remain at the hotel for the time being.”

“For how long, mate?”

“Until I have had time to question all of the guests, and have the murderer in custody,” retorted the constable, severely.

Senhor Cordeiro was immediately contrite. “Of course, Constable.”

With a nod of his head, Dunkley indicated that the man could leave. He gracefully rose from the settee and made his way towards the door. Before he could reach it, however, I called out one last question. “What happened to the bottle of Madeira?”

“Excuse me?” said Cordeiro, plainly confused.

“The bottle of Madeira that we almost drank last night, if Monsieur Dumas had so chosen. What did you do with it?”

“Ah,” he paused for a moment. “Well, you see, mate, I was so angry that I went to my room and drank it myself.”

“The entire bottle?”

He shrugged. “I would never waste a drop of a wine so magnificent.”

“Thank you, Senhor. That was my last question.”

Cordeiro tipped his cap to us and departed. Dunkley and I sat in silence for a moment digesting what we had learned. Finally, the constable spoke. “Well, Doctor, what do you think now of your theory that the person in the downstairs chamber could not be the murderer? I suspect that Mr. Cordeiro and his tennis shoes could have silently climbed those stairs.”

I nodded my agreement with this conclusion.  

“But, of course,” Dunkley continued, “he had little motive for the killing. I can’t imagine that Dumas’ insult of his wine was enough to provoke such a brutal murder. No, I think we can rule out Mr. Cordeiro. What is it, Doctor? You look troubled.”

I shrugged off my suspicions. “It is nothing. Who are we going to interrogate next?”

“I have been pondering that very question. Tell me, Doctor, when Mrs. Foster opened Mr. Sims’ bottle of wine, did you notice how it was sealed?”

“Yes,” I nodded. “It was corked, of course, and the cork covered in a yellow wax.”

“Did you notice any signs of tampering?”

“No, but I admit that I was not on the watch for such a thing.”

“And yet, as you have told me, Mr. Dumas was! He inspected every bottle that he drank from, did he not, fearing poison?”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“And so, if the original wax had been stripped, and the cork temporarily removed in order to introduce the laudanum, the wax must have been expertly reapplied, or Dumas would have noticed.”

I nodded slowly, thinking it through. “That appears to be a safe deduction.”

“But this bottle belonged to Mr. Sims, and was kept in his room. Who would have had the time to do such a thing? Only Mr. Sims! No one else would have dared to spend that much time in his room. The other explanation is that someone stole the bottle from his room, drugged it, repaired the wax, and then re-burgled Sims’ room in order to replace it?”

“That sounds absurd,” said I, shaking my head.

“I agree. So where does that leave us? Back to Mr. Sims.”

I continued to shake my head. “Even if Sims could have fought off the effects of the laudanum sufficiently in order to leave his room and aim a gun, which for the record I highly doubt despite the possible aid of the coca leaves, I remain convinced that a man of his size and with his injured knee could never have climbed that ladder. Sims is innocent,” I concluded firmly.