The Isle of Devils (36 page)

“I will endeavor to do the same. Hopefully we arrive at the same conclusion. Now who should we see next?” I asked.

“I think we should take Mr. Aicardi’s advice. He suggested that we talk with the women. Let us see what the old Spanish lady can tell us.”

§

Constable Dunkley and I agreed that it would be more appropriate for us to formally visit the Marquesa in her room rather than ask her to attend us in the parlor. As such, we decamped from our places and emerged back into the dining room. There we encountered Mrs. Foster, who was setting tables for the upcoming lunch service.

“Ah, Elizabeth,” said the constable happily. “Would you be so kind as to inform the Spanish lady that we will be calling upon her in a few moments?”

“Certainly, Harry,” replied the Proprietress. Quitting her task, she proceeded up the stairs to deliver his message.

“Now, Doctor,” said Dunkley quietly, “we must proceed with great tact. If I read her correctly, a proud old lady like her can become easily offended by the wrong questions and clam up like an oyster.”

“I will follow your lead, of course,” I replied. I pondered whether I should share with the constable my brother’s theory about the Marquesa’s potential guilt. Fortunately, the rapid return of Mrs. Foster down the stairs forestalled me from spreading any baseless slander.

“She will see you immediately,” reported Mrs. Foster.

“Excellent!” replied the constable. “Come, Doctor.”

We mounted the stairs until we reached the landing. From there we entered the twisting passage where, per Mrs. Foster’s map, the first door on the left promised to lead to the Marquesa’s room. The constable knocked on the door with a loud and authoritative tap. This was promptly rewarded by a thickly-accented voice within that bade us enter.

Twisting the handle, the constable swung the door back, and found the Marquesa calmly staring at us from behind her veil. She rested in the only armchair in the room. As we entered, she set aside a black leather-bound book, and turned her frank, searching dark eyes upon us. “Come in, gentlemen,” said she, gesturing to the ground in front of her with an overmatching dignity that
compelled obedience. For a brief moment, I imagined that she expected us to kneel before her. Her demeanor was regal, and I did not doubt that the blood of the masterful Conquistadors flowed in her veins. Eventually, I realized that she was inviting us to stand before her, as the room had no other place to sit other than the bed or the already occupied chair.

Dunkley formally introduced us and the purpose of our visit, to which she merely nodded. “May I see your papers, Madame?”

Her eyes narrowed and she made no immediate move to carry out his request. “You may address me as ‘Marquesa,’ for my husband’s people have been part of the nobility of Valencia for generations.” Despite her accent, her English was flawless. “If you harbor republican notions and do not wish to use my hereditary title, then the proper form of address for a Spanish lady is ‘Senora.’ The French use ‘Madame.’ I do not.”

“I see,” replied the constable, tightly. “My apologies, Marquesa.”

She smiled grimly at her verbal victory, and then reached over to her bedside table for her papers. She handed these to Constable Dunkley with great reverence, as if they were a copy of the Magna Carta itself.

Dunkley inspected the papers for a moment, and while so doing, I studied the lady again. She was one of the few guests with whom I had virtually no interactions to date, and thus appeared to my eyes to be a great mystery. This enigma was accentuated by her tall and queenly figure, which made her appear to be speaking down to us as if from a dais, notwithstanding the fact that we literally towered over her seated position. Through her veil, I faintly made out that her face possessed a pale mask-like quality which only highlighted the emaciation of her figure. Despite the translucent quality of her skin she seemed to radiate an inner fire. Her hair was lustrous and raven-black, framing her piercing small dark Spanish eyes. Although she was now but a black-eyes shadow of her former self and no longer in the flower of youth, I had little doubt that she was once a celebrated beauty. She wore a dress nearly identical to, if not the same as, the one in which I always encountered her. It was made of an excellent midnight black silk, though the once-noted ostrich feathers were missing from this particular gown. Instead, her neck was encircled by some old Spanish jewelry made from silver and curiously-cut diamonds. 

Eventually, the constable looked up from the papers and said, “You are the Marquesa Dolores Garcia Ramirez, born 1837…”

“A woman does not like to be reminded of her age, Constable,” she interrupted him. 

“Ah, my apologies, Marquesa,” stammered Dunkley. He seemed at a loss of how to proceed.

After his two false starts, I decided that I must take the reins of the exchange. “Is Dolores a common name in Spain, Marquesa?”

She smiled wanly. “Indeed, Doctor. Do you know the meaning of the name?” She paused a moment for me to respond, but I decided to allow her to dictate the flow of the conversation and remained silent. “No? Surely you must know your Latin? It stems from the same root as your English word ‘dolorous.’ It means ‘sorrows.’ It is an appropriate name for so many of my fellow countrywomen.”

“And yourself?” I inquired. “Does it describe you?”

She made a sound that in a less elegant person could have been mistaken for a snort of amusement. “Oh, yes! I have worn these widow weeds for thirteen years, Doctor. And I will never put them aside, for
Diego was the best husband that a women could ever hope for. He was taken from me far too young, before he could grace me with a child to carry on his name. Instead, the line will die with me.”

“Is that him?” I asked, indicating a famed picture that rested on her bedside table. It showed a lithe man of about thirty, with dark eyes, immaculately-flowing black hair and a perfectly waxed moustache. He wore a military uniform that I did not immediately recognize.

She glanced over at the picture and reached out to take it. She looked at it for a moment and then clenched it to her bosom. “Yes,” she replied simply.

“Was he a soldier?”

She bowed her head for a moment and then drew out a handkerchief to dab at her damp eyes. Finally she looked up at me and responded. “Indeed. Diego served in the King's Own Immemorial 1st Infantry Regiment, Spanish Army, which is considered by historians to be the oldest armed unit in the world.”

“And did he fall in battle?”

Her face contracted as if in pain and her mouth set into a grim line. “Doctor, some inquiries are offensive. I do not wish to talk about this subject any more. It is too painful to me. Perhaps for some the passage of thirteen years serves to dull the ache, but for me, each day that I live without him is worse than the one that it followed. Do you have any questions that are pertinent to your investigation?”

“I am saddened for your loss, Marquesa. I too know something of the terrible cost of war.” I found myself absently rubbing my wounded shoulder. “May I ask where you last resided, Marquesa?”

“Most recently I was at the Hotel Escurial in Madrid. Before that I had summered at Davos Platz, in Switzerland. Why do you ask?” 

For the moment I ignored her question. “I noticed that you do not travel with a maidservant? I find that a tad unusual for a lady of your station, Marquesa, unless these things are handled in a different way in Spain?”

She narrowed her eyes and glared at me. “She displeased me. I dismissed her.”

“I see,” said I, non-
committally
. “It is simply that this is an unusual hotel in which to find a Spanish Marquesa. It is a bit homely. I would have thought that you would have preferred to spend your layover in Bermuda at the posh Hamilton Hotel.”

The Marquesa pursed her lips and glanced back and forth between me and the constable. “Gentlemen, will you give me your word of honor that what I am about to tell you never leaves this room?”

I immediately acquiesced, but Dunkley shook his head. “I am afraid that I cannot do that, Marquesa, if it touches upon this case.”

“I assure you that it does not,” said the lady grimly.

“Then you have my word,” replied Dunkley.

She paused for a moment, as if to gather her strength. “Gentlemen, I will take you fully into my confidence. I am ashamed to admit that the Garcia Ramirez estate, while ancient in its nobility, is no longer financially solvent. For some time after my husband’s death a sufficient endowment had allowed me to live in a style befitting our name. However, I now find that matters have
changed for the worse, and I have been forced to diminish my staff, as well as the comforts that I take. That is the true reason that I dismissed my maidservant. That is why I am not staying at the Hamilton Hotel. And that is why I am travelling to Florida. I plan
to
live in its charming climate with my sister and her husband.”

I was unsure of how to respond appropriately to this display of embarrassing confidence. My colleague, however, appeared to possess less qualms. “What about the jewels around your neck? Couldn’t you sell those?”

Her free hand flew to her diamond necklace and she shook her head violently. Her eyes hardened. “These were a wedding present from my husband, Constable. They are a part of me, as if they were attached to my skin. They shall be taken from me only when the last breath has left this body.” The passion in her voice was unmistakable. 

The constable appeared to wither under this assault, and I determined that it would be appropriate to divert the flow of the questioning. My eyes travelled about her room until they alighted upon a framed portrait of a man resting upon the dressing table. It clearly belonged to her and was not part of the regular furnishings of the place. The man had a distinguished face, with incisive
deep blue
eyes beneath dark brown hair touched with grey about the temples. He wore a red coat decorated with the insignia of a British Field Marshall. Like any true Englishman, I immediately recognized the Duke of Wellington. “I must say, Marquesa, that I am surprised to find a picture of Sir Arthur Wellesley in your chamber.”

She did not bother to turn around. “I always travel with it. Besides my husband, I like to look upon a great man every night before I sleep. I draw strength from it.”

“But he is an Englishman?”

“Bah,” said she, dismissively. “I care not for where he was born. I care about what he did. He marched into Spain with but a handful of men and swept the perfidious French back past the Pyrenees.”

“You do not care for the French, Marquesa?” I inquired, my eyebrows
rising
.

She smiled grimly at me. “Ah, I see, Doctor. You are clever. Yes, I freely admit that I possess an animosity for the French as a whole. But no more so than is typical for any Spaniard after what they have done to our country. Do you know Goya? He depicts it well. The question is
whether that is sufficient motive to snuff out a single Frenchman’s life?” She paused and stared us in the eyes, first myself and then the constable, before continuing. “The answer is ‘no.’
M
y ill feelings are not directly at any one individual, such as the unfortunate Monsieur Dumas, but merely against the entire mass of them, which is too great an enemy for these frail arms to take on.” She held up her arms as if to demonstrate her weakness, before re-clutching the portrait of her husband.

“Not to mention that the other Frenchman is still hale and hearty, as far as we know,” interposed the constable.