The Isle of Devils (9 page)

I replied in the affirmative. He nodded as if this was the answer to something that he had been pondering for some time. “Thought so. You’ve the same look.”

“Indeed. We take after our father.”

Robinson was silent for a pace after that. “Good man,” he finally said, gruffly.

“Our father?” I asked, rather confused.

He shook his head. “
Capt’n
Henry.”

“Ah yes. I am glad to hear you say so.”

With no reply to that, the conversation, such as it was, appeared as if it would flag. By the contortions of his lips and cheeks, Robinson appeared to be working something from his tooth.  “The Globe, eh?” said he finally, his monosyllabic tone not betraying whether he had any real interest in my reply.

“Yes, that is where Henry told me I would be staying.”

He shrugged. “Not much choice o’er here, I suppose.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Is it not a good establishment?”

He shrugged again. “Don’t reckon I know, not having ever stayed there.”

I frowned in momentary confusion, but a reasonable question suggested itself to me. “Have you ever stayed at a hotel, Mr. Robinson?”

“Can’t say that I have.
Ain’t
never left St. Georges. Not much need, I suppose.”

I nodded at this rough wisdom, not certain what other response was required.

Robinson smacked his lips again. “Course, it seems like just yesterday that it opened.”

“The Globe?” I prodded the taciturn man.

“Aye. After the War Between the States, it became mighty quiet round here. The building wasn’t needed for its old purpose no more, and right around then Ralph Foster came back to the island. He rented it, refitted it, and became the first proprietor.”

“I believe Henry mentioned a Mr. Boyle. Does he assist Mr. Foster?”

The man shook his head. “That would be right difficult.”

I was becoming a bit vexed by his cryptic utterances, but soldiered on. “Why is that, Mr. Robinson?”

“Foster’s dead.”

“Ah,” I said non-committedly, still not very enlightened. “And so who does Mr. Boyle assist, then?”

Here a bit of animation came into Robinson’s face. “Mrs. Foster. From what I hear, Boyle assists her with many things.”

I frowned. “What do you mean by that, Mr. Robinson?”

He shook his head. “I’ve said too much.
Ain’t
talked this much in years. You must be a magician, sir, to pry so much out of me.”

“I have many talents, Mr. Robinson, but I assure you that magic is not one of them.” If it was, I reflected, I might have understood something of what the blasted man was saying. 

But the man’s lips were truly sealed tight, and we rode the rest of the way in silence, save only for the trotting of his horse’s hooves and the crunching of the gravel under the trap’s wheels. Fortunately, our sporadic conversation had taken quite some time, and we had already crested the hill and begun our descent. The road improved to a fairly crisp smoothness and we shortly began to pass between a small and ancient cluster of cottages and small shops. It soon became evident that these buildings represented the outskirts of the town of St. George’s. Many of the buildings were brightly painted in a kaleidoscope of pastels, with lime, turquoise, lemon, and pink representing but a fraction of the tones. Unfortunately, not a few had fallen into a state of disrepair with their color all stained and streaked with damp and bad weather. Within a few minutes, the horse came to a stand on the busiest thoroughfare of the village, though that was not saying much. Looking up, I found that we were in front of a large three-storied peach-colored building with an enormous white gabled roof, its paint evidently newly applied. Four white chimneys buttressed the north and south sides, and white-framed windows apparently looked out in all four directions from the two lower floors, while a small north-facing opening provided some light to what I presumed was an attic. On all sides, the windows were potentially protected from the elements by stout black shutters, though these were currently thrown open. There was little exterior decoration, save a large sign over the first floor window that read simply:
“GLOBE HOTEL.”

I managed to climb down from the trap without assistance, while Robinson saw to my valise. I mounted the five steps that led to the small porch in front of the main door, which was propped open by a ruddy brick. I took my valise from Robinson, and handed him two pence for his troubles. He tipped his hat a
t
me and departed mutely. Crossing the threshold into the entryway, where a flight of dark cedar turned its way to the upper level, I faintly heard the rattle of wheels as the trap drove away. Straight ahead, another door led into what appeared to be a dining room with white-washed walls. As I looked about, a striking looking woman approached me with a pleasant smile of welcome. Small lines around her dark eyes pronounced her to be over forty, and though she was a little short and thick for symmetry, her strong, clear-cut face still registered a commanding presence. I suspected that she would have once been considered a great beauty. She was a brunette, with her hair wound up around her head with a green ribbon, and she wore a simple dress made from dove-colored cotton.

“How can I help you, sir?” she asked.

I realized that this must be the proprietress, Mrs. Foster. “I believe that you have a room for me? My name is Doctor…”

As I began to speak she had pursed her lips and shook her head, and finally she interrupted me. “I am sorry, sir, but we are full up.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. This possibility had not crossed my mind. “I see,” I finally ventured. “Perhaps there is another inn?”

She shook her head again, a touch of color rising to her wan cheeks. “Not in St. George’s. You will have to go back to Hamilton, I am afraid. But come, sir, I can offer you a whisky and soda before your journey.” She motioned towards the dining room.

I finally recalled Henry’s words. “I am supposed to speak to a Mr. Boyle.”

She frowned at this utterance, as if she could hardly find it credible. “Just a minute, sir. Kindly take a seat while you wait. I shall return in an instant.” She motioned to an unoccupied table, and then strode off through an adjacent billiard room and then into some sort of private quarters. I pulled up a seat, which gave me a chance to finally stretch out my aching leg after the cramped situations of first the sloop and then the trap. I took a moment to survey the architecture of the unfamiliar building. The dining room was about twenty feet in length and nearly that in width. Besides the door by which I had entered, there were several other exits. A set of wide-open double doors led into the billiard room. Single steps up led to two doors, one of which appeared to guard a ladies sitting room, while the other belonged to one of the guest rooms. Finally, another door to my right led out onto the street. The room was well lit by two large windows, and in the wintertime, a fire could have been made in the fireplace, though it was lying cold and bare on this fine day. The room was filled with tables and chairs, two larger ones set up to seat four, and six smaller ones set for two persons. However, only one other table was occupied at the moment by customers, which consisted of two men seated at the table furthest from the windows. When I entered they had seemed deep in conversation, but my presence seemed to stifle their discussion. I noted that they were an oddly matched pair.

The first was above all else remarkable for his extraordinary height, which I could discern even while he was sitting. His head was topped with lion-like hair, but his sandy whiskers were
flecked with the earliest hints of grey, and I judged that his age may have been nearer forty than thirty, though his tremendous vitality made that number irrelevant. He had a splendid masterful forehead over magnetic amber eyes, and his sunbaked skin was so craggy it might have been chiseled in granite. He had massive broad-shoulders, with the limbs and chest of a Hercules. I figured that he must have been sixteen stone of solid bone and muscle. His huge hands looked as if they could bend steel. All in all, he was an imposing, commanding figure, with a natural expression of authority, and my first thought was that he would have looked splendid in an Army uniform, though he was dressed plainly in an simple black-frock coat with a circular malachite pin.

His companion was much smaller, likely below average height, though well-built and freshly complexioned. His age was not more than three or four and thirty, and he possessed a frank, honest face with the brow of a philosopher. His sandy hair was cut short and continued around along his cheeks and chin in a trimmed beard with a slight moustache. He used an eye glass, and I noted that his alert eyes were a piercing shade of blue. He wore a very shiny top hat and a neat suit of dark-grey, with an emerald and black silk cravat.

As I studied them, I noted raised voices coming from the back room where the woman had retreated. One voice was surely hers, while the other had the deep tones of a large man. Shortly thereafter, the owner of that voice appeared. In age he may have been about fifty, I should judge, with a strong-jawed, rugged face, and a grizzled moustache and shock of brown hair, which failed to fully cover a bald shining scalp which shot out from among it. He was a thick-set, burley man, with broad shoulders that were unencumbered by a coat, and he was stripped down to his rolled-up shirtsleeves, clearly having recently been engaged in some physical activity. His grey eyes appeared slightly flustered, but he smiled broadly at me, exposing a line of crooked teeth. “You must be Captain Henry’s brother, the doctor! It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I am Graham Boyle. Your brother secured your room with me, and I am afraid that I forgot to mention it to Mrs. Foster. Don’t you worry yourself, sir! If you could just sign the ledger here, please?
” He pushed a worn leather book towards me.
“
Of course we have a room for you. It’s our last one, but one of our finest. It is the corner room, upstairs, the Walker Room.”

“The Walker Room?” I inquired.

“Ah, named after the previous tenant of the building. Before this was the Globe Hotel, it was the headquarters of Major Norman Walker. He was the agent for the Confederate States of
America. From here he oversaw the shipment of war materials from Europe to the Southern States.”

I frowned. “I was but a lad back then, but was there not a blockade by the North?”

“Hah!” the man laughed loudly. “Of course there was. But where do you think the best blockade-runners came from?”

“That’s enough history, I think, Mr. Boyle.” Mrs. Foster had reappeared from the back room and was busying herself with setting up the tables for the dinner service. “Have you even fixed our guest a drink?” She fixed me with a piercing state, and I thought I detected a hint of sulky defiance in her eyes, though what I had done to agitate her was beyond my power of comprehension.

“Oh, I am sorry, sir.” Boyle moved over to a sideboard, where he pulled a bottle of whisky from a spirit case and expertly sprayed a bit of soda water into it from a nearby gasogene. He set the glass down in front of me, and I sipped at it contentedly.

“When you are ready, sir, I can show you to your room,” continued Boyle.

I nodded. “If you don’t mind me taking your glass up with me, then I am prepared to go now.”

“Of course, sir!” he grinned at me. “I can bring you another in twenty minutes, if you please. I am certain it has been a long voyage.”

I smiled back at his thoughtfulness. “Twenty minutes would suit me well, I think.”

“Then after me, sir.” He took up my valise and we returned to the entryway. To our right, a fine set of cedar steps curled upwards. Four steps led to a small landing, then a ninety degree turn, with seven more steps before a second landing, and then another turn with four more to the top. I noted that the steps creaked alarmingly as we rose. The area at the top of the stairs was relatively bare other than a small table, and a propped open door which led into what appeared to be a twisting corridor. As we walked, I observed that the floors were lined with coconut matting, which served to brush the accumulated dirt off of my shoes. The halls themselves were very dimly lit and they twisted like a labyrinth.