The Isle of Devils (35 page)

Constable Dunkley shook his head. “That is an interesting theory, Mr. Aicardi. I assure you that I will take it into consideration. Now if you will be so kind as to be seated,” said he, motioning to the settee before us. Once the man had acceded to the constable’s request, I was given a chance to once again study my billiards opponent from three nights prior. Aicardi possessed a swarthy face, with large, dark, languorous eyes that I suspected women would find very handsome. His face was framed by dark, curly hair that matched his formidable dark, carefully-waxed moustache over a thin-lipped mouth. As with my prior encounters, he wore no coat, but this time his shirt cuffs and grey Harris tweed trousers were spotted with a varied hue of paint colors. Dunkley promptly began his usual line of questioning after examining the man’s papers. You are Dario Aicardi, born 1845 in Milano, the Kingdom of Italy?”

“I am, sir,” the man agreed.

“And would you please write out this phrase for me?” Dunkley repeated the instructions that he had used with the previous guests. As Aicardi wrote, my eyes were drawn to a large splotch of red paint that smeared the tip of his index finger. It looked stunningly similar to the color of the paint used to mark Dumas’ forehead. 

“That is an interesting shade of red, Signore Aicardi,” I commented, motioning to his finger. “Almost the color of blood, do you not think?”

“Ah, yes, this is a rare shade. I have to send away to my cousin Pietro Goldini, who runs a restaurant in London, in order to obtain a supply for me. It is made by an English manufacturer named Brickfall. And I agree, Doctor, that there is no other shade like it to suggest the fresh spill of blood.”

“But I thought that you were painting a boating scene this morning?”

I may have imagined it, but I thought that Aicardi’s eyes tightened a bit at this question. “You have an excellent ability to picture a setting, Doctor. It is true that when I had my epiphany about Dumas I had just removed that boating scene from my canvas, but then my eye was struck by the sight of a young girl leaning a bike up against a vivid red building in the square. None of the other colors in my paint-box were quite right, so I was forced to use the Brickfall
sang
instead.”

“I would like to see that picture,” I remarked. “But do you not use a brush? Why is your finger so red?”

He smiled broadly. “Brushes are quickly becoming passé, Doctor, as the new guard of artists throw off the shackles of convention and use whatever tools seem most capable of expressing the true nature of the scene.”

“So your work resembles that of Corot or Bouguereau from the modern French school, rather than one of your Renaissance countrymen, such as Raphael?”

Aicardi’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You know your art, Doctor. I think that every artist likes to believe that their style is completely original. But of course that is not true. We are always borrowing from the past, mingling it with our own unique tint, and
voilà
, your own style emerges. I would say that I have been most heavily influenced by Greuze and Vernet. But again, my style is all my own. The pigments are set out for the artist who has only to blend them into the expression of his own soul.”

“And have you been successful financially?”

He chuckled heartily. “Alas, no. To date, it is all art for art’s sake, sadly. But someday I hope to have at least one of my paintings hanging in one of the great Bond Street picture galleries.”

“If you want to attract customers at a London gallery, you may need to cater to their tastes. Something along the lines of Kneller or Reynolds would be preferable, I think.” I paused, deciding that a change in tact was required. “You are in excellent physical condition for an artist, Signore. In my experience, when they are not painting or writing most artists have a great fondness for tobacco, spirits, and even stronger stimuli, to the detriment of their health. In fact, I initially mistook you for a member of the army.”

“Ha
h!
” Aicardi laughed
.
“
N
o, alas, I chose not to take up arms with Garibaldi as he fought to weld Italia together. But I am a devotee of your English sport of singlestick. As you must know, Doctor, the vigorous thrust-and-parry work keeps a man in top shape.”

“This is very fascinating,” interjected the constable in a tone that suggested nothing of the kind, “but why have you come to Bermuda, Mr. Aicardi?”

Aicardi frowned. “But that is what we have been talking about!” he replied animatedly. “I have come to paint the glorious seascapes and the colorful, white-topped buildings. The combination is unique to this place.”

“I see,” said Dunkley, dryly. “And did you know Mr. Dumas before coming here?”

Aicardi shook his head violently. “No, I had never laid eyes upon that man before. And you may believe me when I say it, for what artist could possibly forget that terrible visage, so cruel and vulturine?”

“That is the second time that you used the word ‘cruel’ to describe him,” I noted. “It is an unusual term to describe a man that you had never met before.”

“Ah, of course I met him upon my arrival at the hotel, and it only took a few words for me to plumb the depths of his shriveled soul. You see, his face was so unique that I asked if he would sit for a portrait. I will not repeat the foul terms that he threw back in my face at such an innocent request. No, gentlemen, I had no need to speak with him again to determine if ‘cruel’ was the proper term for that creature.”

“And the other guests?” I persisted. “Did you know any of them before coming to Bermuda?”

Aicardi shrugged. “No.”

“And yet, two nights ago you asked Madame Dubois to perform a song. How did you know that she played the violin?”

“
Ah
!” the man
said with a
c
onfiding smile
. “You are a man, Doctor. Surely you have noted that she is an attractive woman? There is a spirituality about her face that I find comes from being inspired by the glory of music. And the lady is obviously cultured, Doctor. What cultured lady of your acquaintance does not possess at least some modicum of musical talent, either with an instrument or her voice? As you must recall, sir, the night was dreadful, and the storm threatened to tear down the very walls around us. I feared that the ladies would become nervous at the terrible noise of the winds. As an artist, I know that once I become enraptured in my work, nothing can transport me from it. All worries and concerns disappear into the canvas. I had hoped that music would do the same for her.”

I nodded slowly, thinking about this seemingly reasonable answer. “However, I also overheard you in deep conversation with Mr. Sims four days back. What was it that you said? Something about ‘when it’s over, he can finally rest?’”

This time I sensed that Aicardi’s laugh was more forced. “Ah, Mr. Sims and I had gotten into a pleasant conversation about a serial novel that we have both been reading by Mr. Collins,
and we hoped to reach the end of it soon, as we are both very curious to know how he plans to conclude the story. We were speculating that it must be an exhausting task to write a serial, each chapter having to be produced by a deadline, and hoped that Mr. Collins could take a well-deserved rest once it is over. There is something to be said for the serial novel form, I suppose, but I have always been too impatient for it. I prefer to read the entire story in one fell swoop, such as is done in Beeton's Christmas Annual or Lippincott's Monthly Magazine…”

“Yes, yes,” said Dunkley, interrupting us, “let us refocus on the task at hand. Have you ever heard of a
qua tofana
, Mr. Aicardi?”

Aicardi’s face took on the visage of a man repulsed. “That is the weapon of Neapolitans and of women. It is not something that a gentleman from Milano knows much about.”

“And what if I told you that Mr. Dumas’ was killed by it?”

“Truly?” said Aicardi with great surprise. “I had heard that he was shot?”

“Perhaps he was shot only to hide the fact that he was poisoned?” responded Dunkley, raising one eyebrow suggestively.

“Then I would suggest that you focus your investigation, in the absence of any Neapolitans in the hotel, upon the women,” replied Aicardi, simply.

“I will do so,” retorted Dunkley in turn. “Now, other than your hypothesis about Dumas’ self-murder, is there anything else that you would like to tell us?”

Aicardi appeared to consider this. “Yes, in fact there is. I believe that there is a real possibility that this hotel is haunted.”

Dunkley’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Would you care to explain?”

“Indeed. It was your question about the Brickfall
sang
red that brought this incident back to my mind. You see, a painter’s pigments are part of himself. Without them, we cannot create. We are unmanned. And so, we pay exquisite attention to our supply of paints. I monitor them every day, and yet, two days ago, I noted that the jar of
sang
was missing from my paint-box. I searched everywhere in my room, though I knew that I had not misplaced it. I even asked Mrs. Foster if she or the maid-servant who cleans the rooms could have taken it. But all without success. It had mysteriously vanished.”

“I thought you said that you just used it this morning to paint a building?” I queried.

“I did. You see, Doctor, when I came downstairs yesterday morning, imagine my surprise at finding my little jar of red paint sitting on the bar in the billiard-room. I know for a fact that I did not put it there. And no one else could have had access to it or would have had a reason to take and return it, except for a mischievous spirit that can pass through locked doors. There are many old buildings in Italia that possess such phantoms. I suspect that the same must be possible in Bermuda.”

“That is another interesting theory, Mr. Aicardi,” said the constable, dryly. “Thank you for your assistance. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Not at all, gentlemen. Please do not hesitate to ask if you have other concerns. As they say in my country,
‘E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle.
’”

“What was that?” asked Dunkley, a frown forming on his brow.

“It is something we say when we hope that an event comes to a happy conclusion, as I do with your investigation. Good day,” said he, rising and bowing before departing. 

Once the door shut, Dunkley turned to me. “What was all that about, Doctor?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I am not certain. My Italian is limited. The final word seemed familiar, however, since much of Italian is derived from Latin. In that tongue, the word for star is ‘
stella
.’ It is not too much of a supposition to think that ‘
stelle
’ is the same word.”

“Star? What could that possibly mean? I tell you, Doctor, that this Italian is a shady character. He had too many convenient excuses, if you ask me. Do you think that he could be a member of the Mafia, the Carbonari
,
or the Camorra? That would explain much. The brutal killing. The macabre style of Dumas’ death bed.”

I nodded slowly. “I suppose that it is possible. But it is solely a hypothesis. We have no proof.”

“Not yet, not yet. But perhaps we will by the end of the day,” said Dunkley, coyly.

“Truly?” I said with great surprise. “What have you learned?”

“Nothing definitive. And nothing that you have not heard. But I have thought long and hard about how these stories fit together and a possibility is starting to form in my mind.”