The Isle of Devils (47 page)

Constable Dunkley interjected. “But Doctor, we have handwriting samples from every man in this room. I’ve examined them to the
minutest
detail. I am confident that none of them wrote the note that we found in Dumas’ room.”

I nodded
grimly
. “I agree, Constable. None of the guests wrote that note. But we do not have a handwriting sample from every man in this room, do we, Mr. Boyle?” I turned to the innkeeper’s assistant, my eyebrows raised.

The livid flush that rose on his cheeks was a sufficient answer. His gaze darted around the room, before settling upon the constable. “Harry, you know that I never properly learned my letters. How could I have written that?”

The constable look puzzled. “The note we found was crudely written,” I agreed,
continuing
“
much
like
something
written by a man just learning, but whose words were being dictated by someone far more trained. Someone who masterminded this entire revenge. Someone like an
av
ocat
, Monsieur Dubois.”

Dubois’ only response was a haughty silence.

“But Doctor, what is your proof?”
asked the constable, his eyebrows drawn low in intense thought.

“I freely admit that I have little proof.
However, a
ccording to this wire that I just received from Dr. Penny,
” I held up the telegram,
“
it is an undisputed fact that the knife possessed by Colonel Moreau, or Monsieur Dumas if you will, carries the symbol of the
Légion étrangère.
”

“He could have bought that somewhere,” protested Dr. Nemcek, “it is not proof that the m
urdered man once belonged in the ranks of the
illustrious French Foreign Legion!”

“True enough, and yet it explains much.
Dumas believed that you were on his track and he was always on his guard against you. He feared that he was at the center of a monstrous conspiracy, and he was correct!
Dumas always had the look of a man who had spent too
long a residence
in the tropics. His jade pipe stem must have hailed from Central America. And it explains why there is no German in this hotel, for years of rising tension that eventually le
d
to the unhappy Franco-Prussian War
have made it impossible
for a German to be allowed to join the Legion. And it explains why Monsieur Dubois wished to be thought of as a Frenchman, when in fact, he is a Belgian. For he did not wish to draw attention to Moreau’s nationality, which might have made us consider exactly where a Frenchman would interact with such an assorted crew.”

As
Constable Dunkley and
the
guests
pondered this, a tremulous voice broke through the silence. “There are many such places, Doctor,” said the Marquesa, “where the French interact with other nationalities. Their tentacles are far-reaching. I do not see why you have to invent such a preposterous tale.”

“I apologize if I have pained you, Marquesa. I intended no dishonor to your husband. And yet, you yourself failed to deny that he fell in battle. I know your sadness must be profound, but I suspect that your fury is even greater. A woman of Spanish blood does not
lightly
condone such a treacherous act. When passions flagged, when new careers developed and distractions arose, who pressed the men to carry on for the final
years
of the last thirteen? I believe that you were not being completely honest with us, Marquesa, when you told us your reason for your maid’s dismissal. You are not going to Florida, are you? Bermuda is equally on the route to Mexico, I think.”

Her eyes flashed at me, and her head was raised proudly. Then it sank to her chest. “You know my fate as well as I, Doctor.
I have only a little time left and
I would not have
stranded
Beryl in the New World. But I will lie with
my
Diego again very soon.” Her chest sobbed.

Lucy went to her aid with a handkerchief and glare of anger
for me,
all thought of he
r natural reserve apparently lost in her ov
er
-
powering excitement and concern
for the Marquesa
.
But the Marquesa stiffened and thrust out a defiant chin before waving her away gently. Nonetheless, Lucy turned to the constable heatedly. “Constable, you have only the Doctor’s words to support this farcical tale. But have you considered the possibility that he may not be entirely well? He has just been through a horrific battle and was terribly wounded. Perhaps that is why he sees enemy soldiers everywhere, and envisions conflicts that never occurred? He has also been voraciously reading mystery novels. Perhaps that is why he perceives conspiracies where none exists? He has even imagined that a Persian slipper has been appearing and disappearing from his room!”

I was stunned by this accusation against my competence, especially arising from one that I held in such high esteem. For an instant I could have sworn that the faintest shadow of a smile flickered over her lips. Dunkley turned to me with a shadow of doubt having risen in his eyes. But despite my bitterness I pressed on.
“
There is one other little item, but it is a suggestive one.
In England, a jury is composed of twelve men. Tell me, M
onsieur
Dubois, do you happen to know the composition of the tribunal for a court-martial in the French Foreign Legion?”

Dubois nodded slowly
, as if pondering whether he would be found out in the event of him uttering a falsehood
. “I believe that a military tribunal in the French Foreign Legion is presided over by a Judge Advocate, with as few as three and as many as seven officers who pass
final
judgment.”

“If I count correctly, excluding myself, there are nine guests remaining in this hotel. The addition of Mrs. Foster makes ten. One man must have served as the Judge Advocate
.
Perhaps the highest ranking soldier left alive from the company?
But that man could still play a role,
such as
drinking heavily from a drugged bottle of comet vintage
S
auternes in order to allay
the
nervous
victim’s fears? And the remaining nine
would have to draw lots to
determine
which of the seven were allowed to pass judgment. Constable, how many shards of sea glass did you find?”

“Nine.”

“That’s correct. Seven that were green and two that were blue. The perfect tools
with which
to draw lots. And how many bullet holes did we find in the dead man?”

“Seven,” said the constable, his voice a barely audible croak.

“You wondered, Constable, why the gun was reloaded and another bullet fired? There is your answer. You see, Constable, there is no single murderer. That was their
coup de maître
, their masterstroke. Everyone in this hotel had a hand in his death.”

Sims turned to Dunkley and t
rained
the full force of his
powerful
gaze upon the befuddled man. “Constable,
enough of this rigamarole!
I believe that the time has come to decide which tale provides the most likely explanation for the murder of Monsieur Dumas
:
your
splendid, straightforward theory
of a vicious fall-out between desperate pirates, or the Doctor’s convoluted
fairy-
tale of revenge across the year
s?
The magnificent fair-play of the British criminal law is in your hands.”

Dunkley looked
plagued with irresolution
. The
ripple
of emotions
across
his face was clear, and his response was slow in coming.
“The Justice of the Peace in Hamilton is not noted for the leniency of his sentences from the bench.”
He turned to me pleadingly. “You must help me decide
, Doctor
. I have never met a man who was more eminently suited to represent a British Jury than you.
Does everyone agree?
”

I looked about the room. My eyes caught the gaze of each of the guests, who I had come to know so well over the last few days. But I mainly wish
ed
to look into the eyes of Lucy, to try to gauge what
thoughts were foremost in her mind.

Lucy was the first to speak. “The Doctor is a gentleman to whose mercy I should be entirely willing to trust,” said she with great solemnity.

I gazed at her, befuddled. Was she simply trying to manipulate me? I could not be certain the veracity of her feelings. And then I realized that her prior outburst, rather than an attack upon my character, was actually an attempt to provide me with an escape from the predicament of being correct. Terribly correct. But
Sims must have taken my hesitation for an internal debate about what course of action. “You realize, Doctor, that without the stone, you cannot prove it,” said the former
Sergent-Chef
.

I took a deep breath and found my equanimity.
I looked at him and nodded. “What does the law of England care for blood shed many years ago in far off Mexico, or for the great treasure which this man has allegedly stolen?
They are like crimes committed on some other planet, and any sequelae that have rippled out from the first offense are equally inconsequential. It is not our
responsibility to police a justifiable private revenge.
Clearly the first solution, the Constable’s solution, is the correct one. Mine was nothing but
the
phantasm of an overwrought imagination.”

With that pronouncement, Lucy smiled broadly and the room once again broke into a happy buzzing of conversation. Tears sprang to her eyes and she nodded at me before turning away. I watched her for a moment, until the constable clapped his hand upon my shoulder.

“Tell me, Doctor,” he said warmly. “Do you really believe that? Are we commuting a felony?”

I thought about this for a moment. “It’s not about what I believe, Constable. It’s not even about what I could prove, which is very little. It’s about what is right. The sword of justice has fallen, albeit far from the scene of the original crime and long after the loot has been dispersed. But fallen it has, and no one would doubt that its aim was true. There was always only one criminal in this hotel, and he is dead. All that it remains is men - and women - who have lost someone dear to them. But is that not every man’s story? We are not so different from them. In the same situation, we may have trod a similar path.”

Dunkley nodded slowly. “Thank you, Doctor, for all of your assistance.”