The Isle of Devils (37 page)

She straightened up and narrowed her eyes to peer at him. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Dubois,” explained Dunkley. “I’ve not heard that he had any misfortunes during the night.”

“Ah, yes, exactly,” said she, appearing to slump a bit. “If Monsieur Dubois is still breathing, then I think you must discount any theories that Dumas was assassinated because of his nationality.”

“So who do you think killed Monsieur Dumas, Marquesa?” I asked.

“You ask the wrong question, Doctor. Not a ‘who’ but a ‘what!’”

I furrowed my brow. “I am afraid that I am not following you, Senora.”

“The door was locked from the inside, was it not? What kind of man could accomplish such a thing? But a vengeful spirit…” her voice trailed off as her eyebrows lifted suggestively.

“Are you implying that Monsieur Dumas was killed by a ghost?”

“It is the only explanation!”

If I have one quality upon earth, it is common sense, and nothing will persuade me to believe in such a thing. “I am not certain that I am prepared to accept a supernatural explanation,” said I, tactfully. “The world seems large enough without including that element. The advance of science is sweeping away the primitive superstitions of the past.”

She glared at me. “Scoff if you want, Doctor, but your doubt does no
t
abrogate their existence. I know in my heart of hearts that there is a realm in which the answers of science are helpless. From the minute I checked in, I have felt the presence of a ghost in this very building.
But better than that… I have actually witnessed one! Late last night, I left my room and began to walk down the hall. I tried to walk as silently as possible given the coconut matting on the floor, but it is impossible to move without making at least a modicum of noise. You can therefore imagine my surprise when I saw someone advancing towards me, though my ears heard nothing. And then I realized that I could see her far too clearly given the darkness of the passage, as if she glimmered in her own emitted light. She wore only a bone white gown, but it was her face which held my gaze. She was deadly pale – never have I seen a figure so white. I knew then that she was not of this world, for only a ghost could look like that. Within seconds the temperature dropped at least fifteen degrees and the hairs on my arms stood erect. It sent a chill to my heart. The only sound was my frightened breathing as she stopped and stared at me. And then, in an instant, she was gone. The hall became warm again, but I elected to forsake the call of nature and rapidly returned to my room for the rest of the night. Though the lock on the door gave me little comfort, and I remained awake until dawn’s rosy rays brightened my window.”

I glanced at the constable skeptically, but to my surprise he appeared to take her story seriously. Nevertheless, I shook my head. “But why would a Bermudian ghost feel vengeance against Monsieur Dumas specifically? Why have the remaining guests been left unharmed?”

“A ghost does not need a reason, Doctor! Reason is the instrument of the living, not the dead. The worst of them hate anything with blood flowing through its veins. But I sensed that this particular ghost may not be so capricious. Perhaps she only sought out a victim who was most similar to the one who wronged her in life? As a woman, I was left untouched, but who knows what secrets lay buried in Monsieur Dumas’ past? Certainly many an innocent woman has been hanged near this very spot!”

The constable shook his head, “Those were witches, I am afraid.”

“Bah!”
she scoffed. “One man’s witch is another man’s wise-woman. Constable, can you be certain that justice was done in every case?”

Dunkley failed to meet her eyes. “No, of course not! It was a long time ago. The last hanging of a witch in Bermuda happened over one hundred fifty years ago.”

“And what does a spirit care for the clocks of the living?” replied the Marquesa dismissively. “If only I had known how thick this island was with spirits, I would have brought Jimson weed with me to protect my room. They cannot abide the smell.”

I frowned at this pronouncement, “Jimson weed? I have read of this. Its consumption is highly hallucinogenic and poisonous.”

“So?” was her haughty reply, as if she did not mind being tangentially accused of being a poisoner. “Did he die of poison then? Was that before or after the seven gunshots?”

I nodded reluctantly at the apparent truth to that statement. I decided to try one last approach at a broadside. “Marquesa, I was wondering what currency you are travelling with?”

She stared at me for a moment before replying. “Are you asking, Doctor, if the silver
reales
that you found on the dead man’s eyes belonged to me?”

I nodded, impressed by her acumen. “How did you know about the
reales
, Marquesa?”

“This is a small hotel, Doctor,” she scoffed. “People talk. As for your
reales
, I would have to see them to be certain.”

Dunkley reluctantly reached into his satchel where he had secreted the evidence of the case and brought out the coins.

“May I?” she asked, awaiting the constable’s nod before taking the coins from his hand. She studied them for a moment and then handed them back. “The answer is ‘no.’ They do not belong to me. They are the coins of a different era, when the Spanish Fleet still ruled the Caribbean, before our colonies were lost. More than fifty years ago. No one uses coins such as these now.”

“Thank you, Marquesa,” said I, turning to my colleague, “Constable, do you have any other questions for the Marquesa?” I wondered if he was going to ask for a sample of her handwriting, though it seemed obvious that the mysterious note in Dumas’ room could only have been penned by a masculine hand.

Evidently he agreed with me, as he forsook any attempt to do so. “No,” he stammered, apparently overwhelmed by either her aristocratic bearing or her ghostly tale. “Thank you for your assistance, Marquesa.”

Her only reply was a dismissive nod, and we silently backed our way out of the room. When we had regained the landing, we both paused and emitted long sighs.

The constable snorted in exasperation. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Doctor. All of these tales of ghosts and spirits, I feel like we have stumbled into a Grimm’s fairy tale.”

While there was something eerie and ghost-like about the Marquesa, I resolutely shook my head. “I refuse to find credence in a supernatural explanation. No ghost fired a revolver into Monsieur Dumas. No ghost wrote in paint upon his forehead or placed those coins upon his eyes.”

He appeared to pull himself together. “Yes, I suppose you are right, Doctor.” And then he said the words that I had been dreading all morning. “Well, we might as well continue with the female guests. Let us talk next to the American lady, Mrs. Lucy Dubois.”

§

I had known that this moment was inevitable, but that did not make it any easier to face. Nonetheless, I am capable of putting up with many hardships, and so I put on my bravest face. “I agree. Do you think that we should question her in the presence or absence of her husband?”

Dunkley shrugged. “If they are culpable, they have had sufficient time in which to coordinate their stories, but I still think that we shall have higher odds for a moment of unguarded honesty if we talk with them separately.”

“The parlor then?”

The constable nodded and we decamped back downstairs. We found that the dining room was temporarily deserted, so Dunkley went in search of Mrs. Foster. During his absence, I attempted to explore my emotions. I knew that my attraction to Lucy was an impossible infatuation. It went against every fiber of my being. And yet her appeal was almost magnetic, as if I had no more say in the matter than the needle of a compass did when it was drawn to the north. Fortunately, this introspection did not last long, as Dunkley and Mrs. Foster returned promptly.

“Come, Doctor, we will await her in the parlor, while Elizabeth requests her presence.”

The two of us settled into our usual chairs, and while we waited I explained that I already had some interactions with Madame Dubois where I had learned about the death of her father. Dunkley nodded at this information, but did not have a chance to comment, for within a few minutes a knock had sounded upon the door. The door then swung open and Lucy entered. It may have been a trick of the light behind her
, which
fram
ed
her face, but I could have sworn that I saw a halo gleaming about her unbound lustrous red hair.

“Pray take a seat, Mrs. Dubois,” said the constable.

My senses drank her in as she gracefully established herself upon the settee. Her green eyes were shining this morning, and her lips parted, a pink flush upon her lightly freckled cheeks. Her frangipani perfume was pleasingly subtle. She was dressed in a gown of a white diaphanous material, with the smallest touch of emerald green at the neck and waist. It was a simple dress,
without the cluster of fanciful touches that many women use to distract from the plainness of their features. Instead, her remarkable beauty shone like a beacon in this small room. Then she smiled shyly, and I was reminded of her great youth.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said she, opening the conversation, her melodious voice a balm for my soul. “Where I come from, we don’t like to beat around the bush, so I will just come out and say it. I have been conversing with the other guests that you have questioned. I know you are hoping that I will suddenly confess everything to you, but I am afraid that nothing is further from the truth. I swear to you, upon all that I hold sacred, that I’ve never met Monsieur Dumas before I arrived upon Bermuda, and in fact, I never even said a word to the man before his death. His countenance was not one that invited pleasant conversation.” Her eyes turned to me as she said this, and I imagined that she silently added, ‘
unlike what we shared in the garden
.’

“Yes, that’s very well, but you understand that we still have to question you, as we have done with everyone else
who was staying at
the
Globe
when Dumas was killed,” replied Dunkley. “You may know something without even realizing it.”

She shrugged, almost gaily. “Why of course, Constable. Fire away, I have nothing to hide. I have never been questioned by the police before. I expect it may prove to be a fascinating experience. Though,” she said, looking about the pleasant little parlor, “the atmosphere leaves much to be desired. I had imagined something rather danker, perhaps with some rats scurrying in the darkest corner? And maybe the slow dripping of water? This settee is terribly comfortable. Are you certain that you do not need to tie me to a chair?” she concluded, a mischievous smile braking out upon her face. 

I couldn’t help but laugh, to which the constable threw me a sour look. “There will hopefully be no need for that,” said he, without a trace of humor in his voice. “Do not forget, Madame, that a man was viciously murdered two nights ago not twenty feet from where you slept. May I see your papers?”

“Certainly, Constable,” she replied more soberly. “I apologize if I made light of the situation.” She promptly removed her documents from her handbag and handed them over.

Dunkley inspected them for a moment and then looked up. “You are Mrs. Lucy Dubois,
née
Harrier, born 1860 in San Francisco, California?”

“That is correct.”

“And your father’s name was?”