The Isle of Devils (34 page)

“Ah, well, as I explained to this gentleman several days ago,” said he, inclining his head in my direction, “I am a naturalist. I was inspired by the voyage of the HMS
Challenger
, whose findings have become the very foundation for the whole field of oceanography. Although I realize that on my own I will never be able to accomplish a feat as great, I believe that their focus on the oceans left many gaps in our understanding of the flora and fauna of the locales that they visited, including here in Bermuda. Once I have completed my voyage, I hope to write a great treatise on the subject. I’ve even decided upon a title:
‘Challenges in Natural History, With Some Observations on the Infinite Variety of Life.’
What do you think?”

Dunkley grunted noncommittally. “Very nice, I’m sure.”

Before he could go on, I interjected a question of my own. “I noted, Mr. Warburton, that you travelled here from Cape Town aboard the
Malabar
?”

If he was surprised by this question, he covered it well. “Ah, I wondered if you were also aboard that ship, Doctor. But there were enough soldiers aboard that I am afraid that I do not remember you. To my enormous regret, I spent much of the voyage in my cabin. I have never been one for sea voyages, and I was ill a great deal of the time.”

“What I am curious about, sir, is that the
Malabar
is a troopship,” I explained. “How is that you were able to take passage aboard it? Are you a member of the Queen’s forces?”

Warburton’s look turned serious. “Ah, well, that is a long story.”

Dunkley seemed interested in the direction that this line of questioning was taking. “We have time, sir.”

Warburton sighed deeply. “No, I have never served the Queen. But my father did, in the Crimea. You may have heard of him, Doctor? Colonel Trelawney Warburton, V.C.”

I furrowed my brow. “Yes, the name seems very familiar, though I cannot immediately place it.”

“He was part of the 17th Lancers at Balaclava,” said Warburton, quietly.

I immediately understood.
“The Light Brigade,”
I
breathed, a touch of awe in my voice.

“Indeed,” said Warburton, nodding sadly. “He was one of the few fortunate enough to survive the charge into the Valley of Death, though it broke him utterly. He has never been the same since, and he grows worse with every passing year. Of all ruins, that of a noble mind is the most deplorable. Once a great and kind man, my father is now a semi-invalid, and not a pleasant man with whom to live, capable of considerable violence and vindictiveness. My sainted mother could not bear it any longer, and I am certain that is the reason they found her drowned body in the lake upon our estate, for she was an excellent swimmer. If truth be told gentlemen, one reason why I decided to leave England was to put as much space between my father and I as possible.”

“So you decided not to follow his footsteps into the army because of how you saw it affect your father’s health?” I persisted.

He shook his head before replying. “No, I am afraid that they would not have had me in any case. You see, I am afraid that my father is now quite mad, and his symptoms were apparent long before he was forced to leave the service. It is only because of his great protector that he was allowed an honorable discharge. As fate would have it, during the retreat from that terrible valley he helped a wounded man back behind our lines. That man would prove to be the son of the mighty Lord Balmoral, who has ever since looked out for my family. He advised me that any attempt of mine to join the service would only stir up unfortunate memories, and that I should look elsewhere for my occupation.”   

“I fail to follow how that allowed you on the
Malabar
?” I continued.

“Ah, Lord Balmoral has kindly provided me with papers that permit me to request the aid of Her Majesty’s forces during my voyage around the globe.
I utilized these to e
nable
my passage on board the ship.”

I nodded. “I understand, but why were you so anxious to arrive in Bermuda? It is almost as if you had an appointment here? Someone that you did not want to miss?”

“Hah!” he laughed, though I thought I detected an anxious note to it. “No, nothing of the sort, but I had already thoroughly exhausted my exploration of the fauna of Cape Town, and did
wish to waste any further days there. Though, I must admit that the behaviors of the Chachma baboons were fascinating. You see, when a male baboon…”

“Yes, that is very interesting, Mr. Warburton,” said Constable Dunkley, interrupting the man before he could discourse any further on baboons. “But let us come back to the more recent past. On the day prior to our little storm, did you leave St. George’s?”

Warburton nodded vigorously. “Indeed, I went looking for the
Pterodroma cahow
, also known as the Bermuda Petrel, but more simply called the Cahow.”

“The Cahow is extinct, Mr. Warburton,” said the constable, dryly.

“Ah, that is the common supposition,” replied the man, excitedly. “There has not been a Cahow captured since 1627. However, I have been talking with the natives of St. David’s Island. There are rumors of sightings in Castle Harbor, only at night of course, and nothing confirmed, but what else could make such eerie cries other than the reputed devils of the poor superstitious Spanish sailors? My hypothesis is that they might be nesting upon the island they call Nonsuch. The Cahow nests on the ground, you know, and if they still exist, they could only be on an island on which no human feet commonly tread, not to mention there must be an absence of destructive cats, dogs, hogs, and rats. Imagine if I could actually find a Cahow after two hundred and fifty years!” His voice continued to rise in a fevered pitch. “It would be like the reappearance of Lazarus from his tomb. I would become famous throughout the world, and it would guarantee my acceptance into the Royal Society.”

“And yet,” the constable continued, “
Last night, after I left the Globe, I spent some time talking to the inhabitants of St. George’s. And
I have the testimony of Mr. Butterfield, a local fisherman, that he saw you walking along the beach at Alexandria’s Battery yesterday. If you were looking for Cahows, you were in the wrong location all together.”

Warburton appeared to pause for a moment. “Ah, yes. Well, you cannot leave any stone unturned, I always say. Due to the roughness of the waters that morn, no one would ferry me across Castle Harbor. Not wanting to waste the day simply because of a little storm, I decided to seek out
Malaclemys terrapin
, or the Diamond-Back Terrapin, which, as you must know, Constable, is native to Bermuda. I thought that the beaches might be the place to start looking…”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Dunkley. “And do you claim any acquaintance with the murdered man?”

Warburton shook his head vigorously. “No, the man was an uninformed brute. A few days ago, over breakfast I attempted to explain to him the various qualities of
Juniperus bermudiana
, the glorious Bermuda Cedar tree, but all he wanted to know was whether there was anything to the science of dowsing.”

I frowned at this unusual interest of Monsieur Dumas, who in my prior experience was only interested in trying to preserve his own skin, though ultimately, he failed terribly at that task. “Dowsing? For water?”

Warburton shook his head. “That is what he claimed, Doctor, though his replies were maddingly vague. If you want my opinion, I would say that he was more interested in using it to search for buried treasure.”

Now it was Dunkley’s turn to frown. “Is that possible?”

Warburton appeared to briefly consider this and then shrugged. “The science is incomplete. I suppose that it is conceivable that certain men have enhanced talents in this regard.”

Dunkley nodded vaguely while staring down at his hands, obviously thinking. Finally, he looked over at me. “Anything to add, Doctor?”

“I do have one question. Your inheritance from your mother. Where is it deposited?”

Warburton shrugged. “It is at one of the best banks in England, of course. The City and Suburban Bank, Bloomsbury Branch, are my agents. Why do you ask?”

I shook my head. “No reason.”

The constable clearly understood the purpose for my inquiry however and diverted the naturalist from this topic. “Do you have anything else to add, Mr. Warburton?”

“I do not believe so. If I may ask, when do you hope to solve the murder of Monsieur Dumas, Constable? I would very much like to renew my search for the Cahow once you have lifted the restrictions upon our travel.”

“Soon, Mr. Warburton, soon. In fact, I hope to conclude this case tonight.”

“Truly?” said Warburton, his eyebrows rising. “I will be most interested, Constable.”

“Until then, sir, would you please see if Mr. Aicardi is outside? If so, kindly send him in. If not, pray ask Boyle to track him down.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied Warburton, rising from the settee. He gave us a stately bow and departed.

“What do you think, Doctor?” said Dunkley, turning to me.

I shook my head in wonderment. “Do you truly believe that you can unravel this mystery tonight? It still seems impossibly convoluted to my mind. And every person we question only adds to the confusion.”

“On the contrary, Doctor,” Dunkley said, “although he may not have known it, I believe that Mr. Warburton just gave us an important clue. You see….” But any further elaboration was cut short by a knock upon the door, followed rapidly by the dramatic entrance of Signore Aicardi. He thrust the door back, and exclaimed, “Gentlemen, I know who did it!”

§

“What?!?” I spluttered, giving a violent start.

“Yes, it came to me in a flash of inspiration,” exclaimed Aicardi. “You see, I was working upon a painting out in the square. It was of a young man and his lady friend who were about to depart from the dock in a small boat. The lady lounged in a light blue dress with a white bonnet. The mustached man wore a shirt and pants all of white, and his head was topped by a straw hat with a blue band, not unlike the one worn by Mr. Warburton on occasion. Suddenly, I realized that my depiction of the scene, although beautiful and true to what lay before my eyes, was far too similar to a painting done by the Frenchman Édouard Manet just six years ago. As I despairingly sponged and scraped the paint from the canvas, forever blurring the image, my thoughts turned to another painting by Manet, also of a man wearing a white shirt. But this man lay sprawled backwards upon his bed, his shirt stained with a bloody red wound caused by a shot from the gun in his hand. He called it
‘The Suicide.’
I believe that Dumas met his fate by his own hands!”

I shook my head in disappointment at this proposed theory. “I assure you, Signore Aicardi, that if you had witnessed the scene in Monsieur Dumas’ room, you would understand that it was incompatible with a suicide. And I know from conversing with him that the man was terrified of dying.”

“Ah, but perhaps he was already too far along that path which leads to unknown shores? Did you not witness the sallow color of his face? Trust me, sir, for I have painted a thousand faces. That was the face of a sick man. Whether he had malaria or a wasting cancer, I leave to the diagnosis of a physician. But I believe that he was angry with the lot that fate had dealt him and decided to take his revenge upon the world. Rather than bravely facing his end, he decided to take someone with him. Perhaps he did not even care who turned out to be his victim, as long as someone received the blame! And so he did away with himself in such a clever fashion that the police would be forced to indict someone for the crime. By this method, that old cruel spirit of Dumas would accomplish something previously thought impossible… he would commit murder of that innocent victim from beyond the grave!”