The Isle of Devils (32 page)

“Your English is excellent, Mr. Delopolous,” I continued. “Have you spent time in England?”

He shook his head. “Sadly, no. A few days at Portsmouth during a revictalling, but nothing more. Fortunately, my cousin spent some time at one of your universities, Oxford, I believe it was. He was highly sought after by the students there for tutoring in Greek, which is essential to the examination required for certain scholarships. He was a natural linguist, and upon his return home, he would work with me, my brothers, and my cousins, to ensure that we all had a firm grasp of your tongue, in case we ever found ourselves in an English-speaking country. Sadly, most of my family never truly picked it up, but I share his ability to acquire foreign languages easily. Although he eventually moved to London to serve as a guide and interpreter, I’ve never lost the skill.”

“And what other languages do you speak, Mr. Delopolous? French perhaps?” interjected the constable.

“
Oui
,” said the man, nodding. “My ships often called at Marseilles. And the lingua franca is widely spoken across the globe. Of course, I have acquired a fluency with it over the years.”

“And Mr. Dumas? Were you familiar with him?”

“I believe that I spoke to him once, a few days ago. I had ordered a brandy from Mr. Boyle, and Dumas made a disparaging remark about it. We argued briefly about the best aperitif, but he didn’t appear interested in my opinion, so I moved on to more gracious conversations. It was hardly memorable, and nothing worth killing the man over.”

“So, prior to your stay at the Globe, you had never met the man before?”

“That is correct.”

“I see,” said Dunkley, dubiously. “And what brought you to Bermuda, Mr. Delopolous?”

“I am on my way back to Athens, after a recent bout in New York against a young buck from Newhaven called Murderous Mathews. Although I was ultimately victorious, my opponent was a brute, and in addition to losing my right incisor, I have been suffering from lumbago ever since. Although I was once a sailor, I have lost my sea legs and the ship travel, with it shifting decks, provoked unpleasant waves of pain. Therefore, I decided to disembark here, and rest until my muscles had a chan
c
e to heal.”

“May I have you write a phrase for me, sir?” inquired the constable, pushing a piece of paper towards him.

“Certainly,” said Delopolous, leaning forward to quickly scratch out the same phrase as the others. ‘Will there be anything more?”

“Not for tonight,” replied Dunkley. “But please remain at the hotel for now. We may have more questions in the morning.”

Delopolous nodded his acquiescence and rose smoothly from the settee. Once the door had closed behind him, the constable turned to me. “What do you make of him, Doctor?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Like most of the other guests, his story seems eminently reasonable.”

“And yet, if there was one man capable of descending that ladder during the storm, I believe that a sailor would be the most obvious,” said Dunkley.

“But what about his lumbago?” I protested.

“You are too trusting, Doctor. Did you see him grimace when he rose from his seat? Did you see him groan when he leaned forward to write? No! Does that sound like a man with lumbago?”

“You believe he is malingering?” said I, somewhat shocked.

“Why not? And you saw his denim trousers… the favorite dress of the sailor due to its fast drying properties. If he wore denim during his excursion upon the ladder, it would be more than dry by now.”

“Well, that certainly sounds plausible,” I admitted slowly. But as I considered this possibility, I began to doubt it. I finally shook my head. “No, I will not put stock in that theory. Even if your conjecture is true, it would have required nerves of steel. And of all of the guests, Mr. Delopolous and Mr. Bey have the best alibis, for it is highly unlikely that either could have left the garret without the other knowing. It is either one of the guests that we previously questioned, or one of those still remaining on the list.”

Dunkley nodded agreeably. “Yes, you are likely correct, Doctor. I think it is too late to do any further interviews tonight. Let us both ponder what we have seen and heard today, and perhaps things will be clearer in the bright light of the morn.” He stood up, and I made to follow him, albeit more slowly, as a wave of fresh pain shot up my not-yet fully recuperated leg.

Dunkley opened the door leading to the dining room where the guests still congregated, buzzing like an overturned bee-hive. At his appearance, the sounds of conversation died away. Looking over his shoulder I saw many anxious faces peering back at him. Like birds to a lighthouse, my eyes were drawn to her and I found that only one gaze did not appear to be turned on the constable. A glint from those brilliant green eyes was like a spark from a flint. She utterly captivated me. If Madame Lucy Dubois was troubled by the murder that occurred in such close proximity, her lightly freckled brow failed to show it. I looked away before I lost my senses in those eyes and became carried away by the will-o’-the wisps of my imagination. 

Dunkley addressed the crowd in a carrying voice, despite the relatively small size of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you that had the patience to submit to our enquiries today, I thank you for your cooperation. For those of you that we have yet to question, namely Mr. Warburton, Mr. Aicardi, Mr. and Mrs. Dubois, and Marquesa Garcia
Ramirez, rest assured that we will take your statements in the morning. Furthermore, until the investigation is complete, I must ask all of you to remain at the Globe. If you need fresh air, you may take a short walk within the immediate confines of St. George’s, but please do not stray more than a few minutes from the hotel, so that you can be recalled if needed for further questioning. Please do not even consider attempting to leave the island. I will be informing all of the port authorities and ship’s captains of your names and descriptions, with orders that you are confined to Bermuda until this investigation has been properly concluded.”

As soon as it was clear that his speech was concluded the crowd erupted in protest. So rapidly did everyone speak that it was difficult to parse out the source of the individual complaints. Some apparently had plans to leave Bermuda for appointments elsewhere, either in Europe or the Americas. Others appeared to have no specific arrangements but simply objected to being treated like a suspect. Perhaps the most reasonable complaint came from a visibly upset Mr. Warburton. “Now see here, Constable. You propose to leave us in a hotel with someone who you suspect of being a murderer? What is to stop him from killing again tonight?”

Dunkley shook his head. “I believe that everyone in this room is safe. The slaying of Mr. Dumas was not a random act of some madman. Someone had a specific motive for seeing him dead. The rest of you should be in no danger.”

Warburton did not appear satisfied by this answer. “But what if one of us that you have not yet questioned possesses critical information that the murderer does not wish to have revealed? That would seem to be motive enough. Spending another night in this hotel is like living on top of a volcano!”

At this terrible suggestion, the Marquesa sank down into a chair, visibly upset. Madame Dubois immediately went to her side and began to provide whispered comfort. Dunkley meanwhile licked his lips and pondered this for a moment. “Do you possess such information, Mr. Warburton? It would have been better if you had volunteered this earlier.”

Warburton quickly shook his head. “No, no. I do not know anything of use. It was purely hypothetical. But who knows what twisted beliefs lurk in the mind of a murderer? Just because I do not think that I know anything useful, does not guarantee that the murderer also considers it prudent to let us live.”

Dunkley smiled sardonically. “If anyone who has yet to be questioned would like to do so now, I would be happy to talk with them. However, by your logic Mr. Warburton, no one is truly safe, for even those that have already been interviewed may still possess some unrevealed piece of information that turns out to be a critical clue. Fortunately for you, the murderer cannot kill everyone in the hotel without making his identity crystal clear.”

Warburton’s brow knit even further at this pronouncement. “And how do you propose that we remain safe until you determine who he is?”

“I would lock your door,” replied the constable, dryly.

Warburton shook his head. “I heard from Mr. Bey that Dumas’ door was locked. And yet little good it did him. The murderer still found a way in!”

“If you are that concerned, then I would recommend that you also bar the door and lock the window. Now, does anyone else have anything that they would like to report tonight?” He paused for a moment, but was met with only silence. “No? Then I bid you good-night. I think we will start with you tomorrow, Mr. Warburton. Shall we say eight o’clock here in the parlor? Doctor, I trust that you will join us?”

I murmured my agreement, and bid Constable Dunkley a pleasant evening. He replied in a similar vein, though I doubted that I would find much peace that night. Between the conflict of emotions in my breast and the tumult of questions in my brain, I was completely out of sorts. The crowd began to disperse, and I stood by the door leading to the stairs, lost in deep contemplation. I was jolted from this state by the feeling of someone brushing against my arm. I looked up suddenly, but only caught a glimpse of Madame Dubois mounting the stairs, her light green gown trailing behind her. For a moment, as the stairs turned the corner, I thought I saw her briefly glance downwards towards me, and a half smile curled up one corner of her mouth. And then she was lost from view, but the dwindling
frou-frou
of her skirts rustled in my ears and the frangipani scent of her perfume lingered in my nose as I pondered her intentions. Fortunately, my attention
was soon focused upon the arrival of my brother Henry, who bounded through the front door of the hotel.

“Ham!” he exclaimed. “What the devil is going on here? I can’t seem to leave you alone, brother, without you getting into some sort of adventure! First, you acquire all of that Jezail lead, and then a man is shot to death in the room next to you! What’s next? A rendezvous with royalty? Now tell me all about it!”

The two of us repaired to a nearby table, where Mrs. Foster brought me the supper that I had missed, as well as two glasses and a Venetian carafe filled with an excellent Chianti. We spoke in low voices, and paused whenever someone drew near, but eventually I divulged everything that I knew about the case.

When I was finished, Henry sat back with a sigh. He nodded toward the door. “Come outside, brother.” The two of us pushed back from the table and taking our hats, we ambled out to King’s Square. All was sweet and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, such a contrast to the physical turmoil inside the hotel, and the emotional turmoil in my breast. “What a mess, Ham! I’ve never seen anything like it. Since the War Between the States ended, St. George’s has been such a quiet place. This is shocking. What do you make of it? Have you formed any definite conceptions as to who is responsible?”

I shook my head. “I admit that I am at a loss. Everyone that we have talked to today has an excellent story for why they are in Bermuda, and none have a good reason why they would want to kill Dumas. Although there were many clues in his room, they do not appear to point towards anyone in particular. Perhaps our questioning of the remainder of the guests tomorrow will shed some light upon the subject.”

Henry nodded. “I would wager that the old Spanish lady did it.”

My eyebrows rose in surprise. “Whatever makes you think that?”

He shrugged. “There is something morbid, something Gothic, about the whole death-scene that you described. She fits that mold the best, with her black dress and veil. Mark my words, she will have some dark secret in her past. The Spanish are a nation of sinister folk!”

I shook my head. “I am certain that you are wrong, brother. The Spanish have passionate blood, but you paint with too broad a stroke when you assign an entire race to villainy.”

Henry nodded amiably. “Perhaps you are right, Ham. Only time will tell. I hope Dunkley gets to the bottom of this soon. He’s a good man, if a bit unimaginative. It’s a good thing that he has you by his side. Perhaps you will see a spark where all is dark to him. I’m certain that your imagination is plenty active, courtesy of all those yellow-backed novels that you read.”