The Isle of Devils

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The Isle of Devils Page 12

by Craig Janacek


  My brother must have seen the expression on my face. “Keep it, Ham,” said he, kindly.

  I shook my head and handed it back to him. “No, we keep with tradition. It must go to the eldest son.”

  He took it back with some reservation and slipped it back into his coat pocket, where I heard it clink against some coins or keys. “I will see that you get it someday.”

  I shook my head again. “It should go to your son.”

  Henry laughed. “Ah, I doubt that I will be so fortunate! Even if I survive all that the British Army throws at me, I’ve never been much inclined to take a wife. No, you may still inherit father’s watch yet, Ham.”

  Thurston suddenly slammed down his glass upon the table. “What do you say to a round of billiards, Doctor?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve not much skill at that. Especially now, with my left arm so stiff.”

  “Practice makes perfect, Doctor, practice makes perfect. Come now, just a game between gentlemen for pure sport. No money involved.”

  Henry seemed affronted by this suggestion. “Where is the fun in that, Thurston? My brother is not so poor that he cannot afford a small wager. Come, Ham, you must still hold a few of the Queen’s shillings?”

  I reluctantly agreed. “But unless Henry plans to sit out, we will need a fourth.”

  We glanced around the dining room. By this time, most of my fellow lodgers had already finished their suppers and had retired. To be honest, I had taken little note of them, so engaged was I in the conversation with my brother and Thurston. I was pleased to note that I was completely unaware whether Madame Dubois had even entered the dining room that night.

  “Well, those two appear too thick in discussion to be bothered,” Henry noted, indicating the pair of swarthy fellows that I recalled from my breakfast the previous morn.

  “And I cannot say that I like the look of that one,” Thurston pointed to the bilious man, who sat alone in the darkest corner of the room. In fact, I had yet to see that remarkable individual conversing with anyone. A solitary creature indeed!

  “Then, here’s our man,” I said as the man with the languorous eyes entered the room. I stood up as he passed by our table to draw his attention. “Sir, it is a pleasure to meet you,” said I, introducing myself.

  A smile cracked his Latinate face, and his manner was effusive. “Good evening, Doctor. I am Dario Aicardi.” I noted again that his English was touched with a slight lisp, confirming his foreign origin.

  “Where are you from, Signore Aicardi?”

  “Milano. I am a painter, and have come to Bermuda in order to capture the exquisite light as it reflects off the brightly colored buildings. Where else can you find such unique structures, all capped in white, like the dwellings of Paradise?”

  “Indeed,” I agreed with him. “And do you play billiards, Signore? We find ourselves in need of a fourth.” I introduced my brother and Thurston.

  “I would be honored to join you gentlemen,” said he, agreeably.

  The four of us repaired from the dining room to the adjoining billiard room, where Mr. Boyle was manning the bar. I paired with my brother against Aicardi and Thurston, hoping that my brother’s skills would hide my forthcomings, both in terms of experience as well as agility.

  “Let me remind everyone of the rules,” Thurston announced as he took up one of the cues. “There are three balls, two cues in white, and one object in red. A winning hazard is potting the object ball, worth three points, or the opposing team’s cue for two points. A losing hazard is potting one’s own cue. Two-ball cannons are scored if you strike both the object ball and the opponent’s cue ball on the same shot. Each person shall take two shots per game. High score wins the game. First team to three games takes all. Shall we call it three shillings each for the pot?”

  We all agreed on the wager and began. Henry took the first shot and softly reminded me of the tricks of the game. “Don’t forget to put chalk between your left forefinger and thumb to steady the cue.”

  Thurston overhead this and commented upon Henry’s tip. “I myself have gotten into the habit of wearing gloves while playing billiards to prevent getting chalk upon my hands.”

  With this congenial banter, the games passed rapidly. Although I like to think that I held my own, especially considering the state of my left arm, Henry and I eventually fell two games to three to Thurston and Aicardi, as the latter proved to possess a deadly accuracy.

  After the Italian had scored a two-ball cannon that won the final game, he graciously took his leave of our trio. Henry then indicated that it was time for him and Thurston to return to the fort. Henry picked up the faithful pup Gladstone, who had sat quietly through our games, but now whined in mild distress.

  “It has been a great pleasure to meet you, Doctor,” Thurston said.

  “And you as well, Lieutenant. What are your plans?”

  “I expect that I will be in the 99th for some time. My father believes that I need to prove my mettle, and if so, then I will be fit to inherit from my mother’s brother, when he finally shuffles off that mortal coil. Once that happens, I will be free to get my discharge papers and return to London. I plan to invest my inheritance in some property, perhaps in South Africa now that the war is over there, and live the life of a gentleman. You will then find me at the United Service Club on Pall Mall. It’s a wonderful place. In the upper billiard-room there is a magnificent painting of the Battle of Trafalgar, the frame of which was made of wood from the timbers of the Victory. Please drop by and see me, Doctor.”

  “It does sound quite pleasant,” I granted. “I will plan to take you up on your handsome offer.”

  “Excellent!” he replied, shaking my hand enthusiastically.

  I turned to Henry. “I hope to see you again soon, brother.”

  “Count upon it, Ham,” said he, warmly.

  With that exchange the two men and Gladstone exited the hotel. I watched them through the window for a moment and then turned into the dining room, intending to retire to my room after a long and pleasant, but less-than-restful, day. As I strode through the room towards the stairs, I noted that the Mediterranean-appearing gentlemen had vanished, and for a moment I thought the room deserted. Then I heard the strike of a wax vesta. Looking over into the dark corner, I spied the bilious man lighting a small cheroot. Soon a plume of blue smoke curled up from him.

  He noted me looking at him, and suddenly addressed me. “Would you care for a glass of port, Doctor?” There was a trace of an accent upon his words, but I could not immediately place it.

  Not wanting to appear rude, I agreed, though my instincts suggested that I should steer clear of this sinister-appearing man. Time had not improved his appearance, and he wore the same grey flannel suit that I recalled from the previous morn, only more rumpled. He took off his tinted glasses to peer at me and I swore that his eyes shone with a sinister light.

  “I am afraid that you have me at a disadvantage, sir. How did you know that I was a physician?”

  “I have ears, Doctor. And I use them.”

  I licked my lips, strangely nervous. “I see.”

  “Boyle!” the man suddenly called out, the cheroot still clamped between his curiously animal teeth. “A glass and some port!”

  The innkeeper’s assistant promptly appeared with a sparkling glass and a bottle of Warre’s port from 1870, which he set down gingerly in front of me. “As you wish, Mister Dumas,” said he, quickly backing away.

  Dumas, as he was apparently named, unstopped the port and poured me a bumper. I sipped some and found it quite good, but noticed that he was not drinking.

  “Dumas, no relation to the author?” I finally inquired.

  “No,” he replied, monosyllabically, shooting a suspicious look at me. He stared me in the eyes for a moment, and then finally asked. “Where did you say that you served, Doctor?”

  “Afghanistan,” replied I, with equal brevity.

  “What unit?”

  “The Fifth Northumber
land Fusiliers.”

  “Did you see action?”

  “Maiwand.”

  “A great conflict…”

  But I interrupted him. “And you, sir? What do you do?”

  “I am an investor.”

  “What do you invest in?”

  “Investments,” said he, tersely.

  A feeling of revulsion, and something akin to fear, had begun to rise within me at the strange responses of this jaundiced man. I had heard enough of his speech to definitively determine that he was French, but I became impatient with his game, and rose to leave. “Thank you for the drink, Monsieur.”

  “Sit down, Doctor,” said he, sharply. “I need a professional consultation about two matters.”

  My natural curiosity was now raised, and I reluctantly lowered myself back into the seat. “Certainly, sir. However I may be of service. What is the first matter?”

  “What is your opinion about spiritualism?”

  “Spiritualism?” I replied slowly, thinking about the subject. “Piercing the veil between life and death.”

  “Exactly!”

  “That is the realm of charlatans, not men of science such as myself. I thought you were going to consult me regarding a medical condition?”

  “And what if I told you that I had proof?”

  “Proof of what, sir?”

  “The spirits calling to us from beyond the veil that shrouds death. Tell me, Doctor, have you heard of automatic writing?”

  “The process by which a writer produces words without a conscious awareness of what he or she is writing?”

  “Indeed. I believe it is the work of spirits taking control of the medium’s hand.”

  “Frauds,” I scoffed.

  “And if they were to write something that they could not possibly know of?”

  “Clever frauds,” I countered.

  “I tell you, Doctor, that I visited a medium in New York who wrote something that only one living being – me! – knows.”

  “And why did you visit this medium in the first place?” I inquired.

  “That is not relevant to the discussion at hand,” he snapped.

  “I still would suspect that you are the victim of fraud.”

  “This is not a fraud, Doctor,” the man said, morosely. “I am being stalked by a ghost.”

  “Stalked? How so?”

  “He is trying to poison me!”

  I was astonished. “Why would you think that?”

  “Every drink that I am served smells of bitter almonds.”

  I stared, aghast, at my partially-drunk glass of port. He noted my alarm. “Do not fear, Doctor. I am not drinking, hence you are safe. I do not drink anything that I have not personally inspected.”

  “I see…” said I, though I plainly did not. “I am afraid that I fail to understand how I can assist you.”

  “Although I control my intake of liquids carefully, I still require sustenance. And that is much more difficult to monitor. So, I ask if you are an authority on the assorted poisons used by mankind?”

  “I have the ordinary knowledge of the educated medical man,” I replied, with some stiffness. “Do you wish me to provide you with an antidote to Prussic Acid? I have heard that you can inhale the vapors of crushed amyl nitrate pearls…”

  “Bah,” he scowled, waving me off but becoming quite garrulous in his angered state. “I know all about the pearls. I go nowhere without them. No, I fear that my ghost is far too clever for that. He must know by now that I am prepared for cyanide. He was widely traveled. What if he recalls the properties of strychnine or worse, of aqua tofana? It is odorless and tasteless. How will I see it coming?”

  “You cannot, sir, unless you measure everything you ingest with the Marsh test, which is not a very practical solution. Nor is there a reliable anecdote to arsenic, though I have heard that garlic may provide some protection.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Dumas, irritably. “I know of all this. But I have devised a better solution to countering the effects of the ‘poudre de succession.’ Tell me, Doctor, do you not sometime use arsenic to treat your patients?”

  “Of course,” remarked I, with some coldness, for I was repelled by his suggestion which appeared to imply that physicians were no different than poisoners. “Fowler’s solution is an important part of the treatment of malaria and other personal problems that a gentleman may sometimes acquire.”

  “But here is my question for you, Doctor. Does it always work?”

  “Of course not. While the science of medicine progresses every year, it is still very much an imperfect art. Some fail to respond.”

  “And do not some respond for a time, and then fail?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, cautiously.

  “Why?” inquired he, pointedly.

  I thought about this for a moment. “I suppose their ailment must grow resistant to the dose.”

  “Exactly!” said Dumas excitedly. “And if the body can become resistant to a small dose of arsenic, can it not then tolerate a larger dose?”

  “Ah,” said I, finally understanding where the discussion was headed, “you speak of Mithridatism. Of course that tactic eventually proven unsuccessful for Mithridates, the King of Pontus, who having been defeated by Pompey, tried to commit suicide using poison but failed because of his built-up immunity, and so had to resort to having a mercenary run him through with his sword.”

  Half of Dumas’ mouth curled up with a cruel grin. “Do not fear, Doctor. I have no plans of running myself through. What I wish to know is what dose to begin with, and how rapidly to escalate?”

  “I am afraid that I do not have that knowledge readily available. My instructors at Netley must not have felt it was a matter that would arise frequently upon campaign,” said I dryly.

  He seemed oblivious to my attempted humor. “Can you find it in the literature of toxicology?” said the man, anxiously.

  “Yes, I am certain I could, if the local hospital is sufficiently supplied with the necessary texts, though it would take a few days.”

  “The sooner the better, Doctor. I will pay you well. I wish to embark on the program at once, before he learns a new tactic.”

  I licked my lips, suddenly nervous. “There is one thing that I do not understand. If it is truly a ghost that plagues you, why does he use poison? Does he not have more supernatural tactics at his disposal?”

  He stared at me unhappily. “You mock me, sir. You do not have to believe in order to aid me. What of your Hippocratic Oath?”

  “I did not say that I would not assist you, Monsieur Dumas. But perhaps it would help me to understand if I knew why this ghost tormented you so?”

  Dumas suddenly rose from his seat, his face turning livid with fear and his yellow eyes blazing with fury. He violently waved his cane in my face. “That is none of your damned business!” And with no other words of leave-taking, he stormed out of the room and up the creaking stairs, leaving me sitting alone in the darkening dining room. There goes a man in mortal dread of something or somebody, I thought. Despite the lingering heat of the day, for a moment I thought I felt a cold breeze pass through the room which sent a brief chill right down my back. After my long, strange day, I could almost imagine that the tales of ghosts and devils upon this isle were all too real.

  §

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE DARKENING SKY

  After the excitements of the day, I retired to my chambers with a glass of warm milk and a biscuit to try to calm my overwrought nerves. I was quickly between the sheets with every intention of indulging my laziness and sleeping to a late hour. Shaking off the lurid imaginings of Monsieur Dumas, I quickly found myself in dreamland, where the sweet face of Lucy Dubois seemed to look down upon me. However, these fond visions were soon dashed by the rise of a fierce howling wind. This awoke me on multiple occasions throughout the night as it rattled the shutters that protected the glass panes of my windows. After tossing restlessly, eventually I gave up hope of sleep and rose to peer out of the win
dow that looked down into the side garden. I noted that the morning was so wild that the leaves were being stripped from the tree that graced that yard. I heard no other sounds emanating from the other parts of the hotel. Glancing at my pocket watch, I found that it was but a few minutes after six o’clock, and it was little wonder that no one else was stirring on this foul day.

  Both my shoulder and ankle throbbed mercilessly, and I knew that it was futile to consider going back to sleep. Unfortunately, I had no willow bark extract in my kit, and thus little hope of dulling the persistent pain brought on by this sudden turn in the weather. I listlessly lay back down upon the bed for a few minutes more and watched the tepid pale light slowly filter through the shutters. I wondered lazily what Lucy was doing at that very moment. Was she thinking of me? I tried to banish the distressing thought that she might be locked in the embrace of her husband. Eventually, I rose for good and dressed deliberately. I shaved at an even more turgid pace, slowed by the pain in my shoulder, which made it very difficult to raise my arm across my face. I decided not to add more light in order to inspect my handiwork, as I suspected that it would leave me less than satisfied. I descended to breakfast in somewhat of a depressed spirit, for today I found myself easily impressed by my decidedly tempestuous surroundings.

 

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