The Isle of Devils (43 page)

I recalled some newspaper stories that I had read when I was but a young lad that detailed one of the many great undertakings of the Legion.
I recalled what I knew of the last days of an Austrian nobleman who had been unwillingly thrust upon the world’s stage, his tragic end in a far-off land.
As all of this knowledge began to percolate into my brain, a new possibility precipitously dawned upon me. It was as if the clouds had lifted and the light of truth was breaking through. I looked up from the page, and found that most of the room had not remarked on Thurston’s appearance. Only the attention of Lucy Dubois was riveted upon me, and I thought that something like fear suddenly sprang up in her eyes. As I stared back at her, t
he facts
of the case darted like lightning
before my eyes
. T
he mystery suddenly cleared away as this new discovery furnished the
missing
link which
led me to the complete truth.

Before I deigned to do anything with my sudden knowledge, I turned to Thurston and bade him wait. Patting my breast pockets, I quickly located a pen and a scrap of paper. I hurriedly jotted down another questioning telegram, this time to be sent to another locale entirely. Thurston raised his eyebrows speculatively when he saw my enquiry, but he kept his tongue and tipped his hat before departing.

I am afraid that I barely bid him leave, as I was too busy reviewing the threads of the affair which were now all in my hands. I finally understood the whole of that remarkable chain of events. Why all of the surviving guests, save only Lucy and the Marquesa, were of a similar age. Why so many of the men stood with such an erect posture and carried their handkerchief in their sleeves. Why Mr. Warburton was so eager to get to Bermuda by a certain date. Why Mrs. Foster had been so put out by my appearance at the hotel. Why Mr. Sims appeared so familiar with several of the other guests, and the true meaning of his overheard conversation with Signore Aicardi. How Signore Aicardi knew that Lucy played the violin. Why Mrs. Foster knew how to make crepes and why Mr. Sims used a French expression. Why the Marquesa travelled without a maid, and how she knew about the Mexican herb Jimson weed. How Mr. Sims developed the habit of chewing coca leaves, and how Senhor Cordeiro knew to pour out his invaluable bottle of wine. How Monsieur Dubois’ pistol, Dr. Nemcek’s hypodermic needle, and Signore Aicardi’s paint were so easily extracted from their rooms. Why Mr. Sims’ gloves had been used, and why the Persian
slippers had been worn. Why there were no footprints in the garden at the base of the ladder. How Mr. Delopolous and Mr. Bey were able to share a room, despite the hereditary hatred that existed between their nations. Why there was no German guest and no Frenchman other than Dumas. Why Dumas feared for his life and vainly sought to preserve it. Where Dumas had obtained a jade cigar-holder, and what the bank receipts suggested. Why he had been marked with the coins and the paint. Why the pistol that that had taken Dumas’ life had been reloaded, and the reason for the nine shards of sea-glass. Heavens forbid, I even understood why Lucy’s heroine was
Boudica
, the Briton queen who long ago had
enacted her
bloody
rev
enge upon the traitorous Romans. But I also found a glimmer of hope, sprung from a violet ink spot upon her sleeve that perhaps explained the actual reason why Monsieur Dumas showed such
displeasure
at sharing a room with his wife. I then recalled a quote that she had previously recited from Shakespeare’s
The Tempest
. But I recalled it in full. ‘
Alas, the storm is come again!
M
y best way is to creep under his gabardine; there is no other shelter hereabouts:
misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows.
I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past.
’

“Oh, what an ass I have been!” I exclaimed as I sprang to my feet, all thoughts of discomfort in my leg forgotten. “Constable,” I called out over the excited din of the crowd. “I have two final questions to ask that may have a very direct and vital bearing upon this mystery.” A morbid silence settled over the assembled company as they turned their attention upon me.

The constable looked confused, but shrugged amiably. “Pray continue, Doctor.”

I first turned to
the
supposed Frenchman. “I have a simple question for you, Monsieur Dubois.”

“But of course,” said he, shrugging gallantly.

“
M
onsieur
Dubois, are there any common French surnames that begin with the letter
‘
E?
’”

If I had thought that the room had drawn quiet at my initial interjection, it was nothing compared to the utter silence that met this question. Dubois’ eyes flickered across the room, not resting on any one person, before they refocused upon mine. Finally, he spoke. “
D’accord.
There is one.
Etienne
.”

“Thank you,” said I with a nod. “The second question is of paramount importance. It is for Signore Aicardi,” I turned to the Italian painter. “Will you, on your word as a gentleman, respond with honesty?”

The man stiffened and he looked me in the eyes. “I am your servant, sir. I will answer your question.”

“After Constable Dunkley and I questioned you, upon your departure you murmured something in Italian. Would you please repeat it?”

His face showed the greatest consternation at this obviously unexpected question. He passed his tongue over what I imagined to be parched lips before answering. “I believe that I said ‘
E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle.
’
”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

“A translation in English might run something to the effect of
‘and then we emerged again to see the stars.’
”

Although I thought I knew the answer, I asked the question regardless. “And is that a quotation from somewhere?”

Aicardi nodded slowly. “It is the final line from the
Inferno
of Dante Alighieri.”

I turned towards the Australian rugby-player, “Did you know, Mr. Sims, that the great American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, in collaboration with some friends, which included your acquaintance Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, published an excellent translation of the
Inferno
about a decade ago?”

Sims frowned and rose stiffly from his chair. “I was not aware of that, Doctor. I was never much of a reader.”

“That is a great shame, sir, for it is simply remarkable what you can learn from books. I happened to read Mr. Longfellow’s translation when I was at university, and the final line comes after Dante and Virgil have just emerged from the final, deepest circle of Hell. And do you know what they had encountered in that last circle?”

“I do not,” said he, tersely.

“They saw the devil himself gnawing upon the souls of
Judas, Brutus, and Cassius. And why were these three, out of all of the great villains of history, punished so severely? What was their common crime?
I will tell you.
They were traitors.
And one, Judas, had sold himself for thirty pieces of silver. Thirty pieces might be too great to leave upon a dead man’s corpse, but two fit upon the eyes quite nicely.”

I turned to the constable
. “
What you related about a gang of treasure hunters is
a plausible explanation, Constable
Dunkley
.
It is certainly what we were intended to believe. However, w
ould you
kindly
permit me to propose an alternate
theory
?”

“Of course, Doctor,” said he, in a perplexed tone.

“If you would suffer me to expound upon my notion, I will ask you to come away with me for a time, far from the Globe Hotel of St. George’s, Bermuda
. F
ar also from this year
when
we all gathered unto this unlikely place,
a
sojourn which ended with the strange murder of the man known as Gustave Dumas. I wish you to journey back thirteen years in time, and westward some hundreds of miles in locale,
so
that I may lay before you
the
singular and terrible narrative of a man who is no longer with us. Once I have detailed these distant events, perhaps we shall have solved this mystery of the past.”

§

In the southern portion of the great North American Continent lies a land as varied and as changeable as its inhabitants. From the arid and repulsive deserts of the north, to the vast, teeming jungles of the south, it is a region where a man has great barriers to finding peace. The terrible silences of the desert are balanced by the unrelenting cacophony of the jungle, all of which conspire to drive a man towards madness and despair. A smattering of villages are scattered about, breaking the monotony of the enormous lonely stretches, but even those are filled with inhabitants whose bearing and language are all but incomprehensible, so as to provide little relief from a slow descent into hopelessness. Furthermore, all parts of the land share the common characteristics of inhospitality, misery, and ultimately death, either by a shriveled, parched end or a rotting, decaying finale.

One small part of that great land contained within its borders all of the diversity of the country as a whole. The Sierra Gorda was infamous for being extremely rugged, with high steep arid mountains and deep lush canyons. But the most dangerous part of all was the abundance of pit caves that had eroded over thousands of years through the limestone. Their edges were often hidden by foliage, such that a man cutting his way through the region must be ever cautious of his steps, for one wrong one could send him plummeting to a dark and abandoned doom.

Gazing over this very scene, there sat upon the sixteenth of March, eighteen hundred and sixty-seven, a man whose countenance betrayed weighty concerns. Although he was relatively short, he had powerful shoulders and a round, clean-shaven face, lightly freckled. His green eyes were arresting, they bespoke of an intense inward life, so bright were they, so alert, so responsive to every change of thought. They were the eyes of a man who had experienced much more than his thirty-two years would suggest. Although the sun had barely begun to shine over the mountain peaks and filter through the trees of the forest, his forever-rumpled fiery red hair was already protected by a great cream-colored circular hat, which some might term a
sombrero
. He wore a blue coat, with a yellow collar and epaulettes. Its brass buttons were still shiny despite a week of
marching through the forest. His red leggings were trimmed by a blue stripe and tapered to white spats over black boots. A rifle and ammunition-containing satchel lay immediately to his side.

His eyes had risen in response to a faintly detected sound, but nothing followed it, and he concluded that it must have been one of the various nameless mammals that inhabited this forest. His gaze was drawn back to the letter he held, hoping for an explanation that he had missed during one of the first dozen times that his eyes had traversed the pages scribbled in a crabbed foreign hand. Despite being signed by one of his superior officers, Lieutenant-Colonel Moreau, the motives behind instructions within were still inscrutable.