The Isle of Devils

by Craig Janacek

  “Hang it all!” swore Sims. “You have the most incredible luck, sir, while I’ve had a nasty facer! All this losing is making me thirsty. I need another drink.” He began to rise.

  “We cannot keep raiding Mrs. Foster’s bottles,” pointed out Senhor Cordeiro.

  Sims paused. “Damn again! You are right. But I know just the solution. I have the perfect bottle for a night like this in my room.”

  “As do I,” Cordeiro rejoined. “This storm seems like it could be another Deluge. And if the world is about to end, I will not let this bottle go to waste!”

  Realizing that another drink would perhaps be nice before trying to retire to the solitude of my thoughts, I spoke up. “Perhaps you gentlemen could both collect your bottles and Monsieur Dumas and I will decide which one is the superior?”

  Sims smiled. “Good idea, Doctor.”

  Sims bounded up the stairs, while Senhor Cordeiro passed into his room on the ground floor. Dumas and I remained at the table, unable to contribute anything to the competition. Dumas had relapsed into a moody silence. The man’s unforthcoming nature precluded any attempts at conversation, and he appeared content to silently smoke his cheroot while awaiting their return. The wild night had not abated. The wind was still howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the windows. At times I felt as if the building itself was going to blow down. Seldom have I found my temperament so affected by my environs, but my surmise is that even a man with nerves of steel would have been shaken by that terrible night. My companion, his reticence to speak making him seem like nothing so much as a giant carrion crow, was not lightening the mood of the room. Fortunately, it was not long before Sims and Cordeiro were back.

  Senhor Cordeiro was the first to present his bottle, which had a curiously rounded bottom and was protected by a wicker-like coating. “This is the finest bottle of my collection, which is, as a whole, absolutely first-rate. This is a Bual Madeira from 1789. As you may know, the wines of Madeira are unique in all the world. Since our islands were a regular port-of-call of ships travelling to the East Indies, we were often required to supply these ships with casks of wine. But the earliest ones had an unfortunate tendency to spoil at sea. And so, we began to add a small amount of distilled cane sugar alcohol in order to stabilize the wines. After a long, hot, rocking sea voyage, the wine would transform into something different, something special. However, sailing casks of wine solely for the purpose of heating and aging is a costly venture. Therefore, nowadays most Madeira wine is made by storing the wine in a special room, which we call an estufa, where the natural heat of the island’s intense sunlight produces, over a period of several years, a similar effect. But very rarely, you can still find a bottle made in the old fashion, a vinho da roda, a wine that has made a trip round the globe. And it is truly magical. This is what I propose that we drink tonight.” He puffed his chest proudly, with the air of a true bon vivant.

  I was highly impressed and doubted that Mr. Sims’s wine could match such an impressive pedigree. Nevertheless, Sims looked confident as he held up his slightly dusty amber-colored bottle. “I cannot claim to come from a land that makes such magnificent wines, though I would say that my countrymen are starting to change that. But what I propose to drink tonight is not from Australia; rather it is from the home of great wines – France. Some might call this a claret, but do not mistake this for some of the cheap raisin-wines exported by one of the fraudeurs of Marseilles now that the vineyards of Bordeaux have been devastated by the phylloxera plague. This wine may not be as quite as old as Antonio’s, but the grapes were picked in 1811 in one of the greatest of the premier cru vineyards, Chateau d'Yquem. And 1811 was not just another year for Bordeaux wines. For that year the Great Comet Flaugergues passed overhead!”

  At this mysterious pronouncement, Senhor Cordeiro audibly grunted in surprise.

  “Yes,” Sims continued, “this is a comet vintage from the greatest Sauternes vineyard in the world. The comet’s passage transformed what is normally a splendid wine into something wonderfully robust, something exceptional. I won two bottles of this extraordinary wine in a bet with a good friend. One bottle I drank with him, as a consolation for his loss. The other I have carried with me on my travels, always wondering when something momentous enough would occur to justify opening it. I suspect that the end of the world, or at least our deaths in this hurricane, would suffice.”

  I was flabbergasted. “Gentlemen, how do you expect me to choose? It would be like choosing between Homer and Shakespeare! They are both magnificent bottles, and I would be greatly honored to drink either with you.”

  If the fourth person at our table was equally impressed, he certainly did a masterful job of concealing it. Dumas studied the bottles, and the men holding them, carefully. Finally, he broke his silence. “I generally do not drink with strangers.”

  Sims looked as affronted as I felt. “What are you suggesting, sir? You are happy to play cards with us and take our money, but you are not willing to drink my wine? So be it then! More for us!”

  Dumas weathered this verbal assault impassively. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Sims. As long as you fine gentlemen are prepared to drink before me, I will try your wine. It is, as you say, an exceptional vintage from the only land that can make wine.”

  As I said this, I recalled the previous night’s conversation about poisons, and understood the reason, however unjustifiably paranoid, for his rudeness. On the other hand, Senhor Cordeiro stiffened at this pronouncement. “Perhaps I misunderstood you, sir?”

  Dumas turned his vulture-like stare upon the Portuguese gentleman. “No, I think not. What you hold there is not wine. It is fortified pig swill. I would rather drink piss.”

  Cordeiro turned white with chagrin and surprise. For a moment, I thought that Cordeiro was going to leap across the table and strike the Frenchman. But finally he restrained his temper. “This is intolerable, sir! I came here to share with you a treasure, not to be insulted as if I were a beggar.” He turned to Sims and I. “Good night, Mr. Sims, Doctor,” said he, with a clenched jaw. “Enjoy your wine. But I will not share a glass with that foul brute.” He turned and strode off to his ground floor room.

  Dumas mutely watched him go, while the pleas of Mr. Sims and I went unheeded. Finally, Dumas turned to Sims and nodded to the bottle in his hand. “Well, are we going to drink it?” said he, imperturbably.

  From the interplay of emotions across his face, Sims appeared to be considering a withdrawal of his generous offer due to Dumas’ discourteous behavior, but he apparently decided to remain polite. “Of course,” he finally said, “let me find a corkscrew.”

  When Sims returned it was with Mrs. Foster in tow. She plainly was frazzled and harried by the absence of Mr. Boyle on this tumultuous night, but she bore it well. She produced a corkscrew from a pocket in her apron. “I only keep one in the house, and that one on my person, so as to ensure that I know exactly which of my bottles is being opened,” she explained.

  “This one did not come from your cellar, Mrs. Foster, but you are welcome to enjoy it with us,” said Sims, handing it to her.

  Mrs. Foster inspected the dusty bottle and nodded her head gratefully. “This is no common vintage, sir. Perhaps I will try some, but only a sip. I must keep my wits about me, in case the storm worsens.” She went to work upon the cork, and when she drew it out, it was long and deeply stained. She first poured it into a decanter, and the golden liquid that issued forth briefly seemed to brighten the room.

  Sims had collected four glasses from the bar, and Mrs. Foster poured a generous amount into three of them, and then a dram into her glass. Each one contained a small amount of beeswing. Sims picked up his glass and looked at the three of us. “Gentlemen, and a Lady of course, I hereby propose that we drink to Aeolus. May he turn his wrath from us.” He then took a long swallow of his wine.

  “To Aeolus,” I echoed and also rose the glass to my lips. It was an appropriate salute, as what entered my mouth could
only be described as the nectar of the gods. It was as if liquid sunshine had been bottled, and I drank deeply from my glass.

  Mrs. Foster sipped from her small amount, and only then did Monsieur Dumas deign to try a taste. I watched his face as he did so, and for a moment, the guarded scowl that had seemed a permanent feature melted away, to be replaced by pure rapture. “Rather fine,” was his sole gruff comment, which I felt did the glorious wine a grave disservice.

  Mrs. Foster soon left us to our silent contemplation of that bottled bliss, and the three of us ensured that not a drop would be wasted. As the imbibing continued, I finally found myself growing tired, as if we had drunk to Morpheus instead. How exactly I got back to my room that night is a matter of purest speculation, but at least I did not lose sleep ruminating over the matter of Madame Lucy Dubois.

  §

  CHAPTER IX

  MURDER

  When I awoke the next morning, I was in a state of complete confusion. Several factors accounted for this, the first of which was the strange absence of sound. I was not able to quite deduce why this seemed so unusual until I recalled the incredible storm, with its shrieking winds, that we had just endured. I could barely credit the possibility that such a monster had run its course. Secondly, I felt like I was in an absolute stupor. I believe that I would not be boasting if I claimed that I had experience of wines and spirits which extended over many nations, but nothing had ever affected me like that comet vintage.

  I rolled over to look at my pocket-watch and was astounded to discover that it was a quarter past eleven o’clock! This was so inconceivable that I staggered over to the window and threw up the shade. The stormy night had been followed by a glorious day, with the sun high in the sky. I blinked at the bright light in stupefaction, for even at the peak of one of my lazy spells I have been generally quite regular in my habits. I do not recall ever sleeping so late, and I could not fathom the cause of this torpor. However, when I finally managed to stagger over to the wash basin and gazed in the mirror hanging above it, the reason was made both crystal clear and hopelessly obscured. For my pupils were but tiny pin-points of darkness in the center of the enormous blue irises. As a medical man, I knew that only opium, or one of its derivatives, produces such an effect!

  My first thought was to check my wallet, which I found to be relatively barren, but no more so than was typical for a half-pay surgeon. I had not been robbed. Then why had someone drugged me? It was a complete mystery.

  I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to make my way downstairs, desperately hoping for both a café noir and some answers. When I entered the dining room, I found Mrs. Foster and Mr. Sims in deep conversation. The only other individuals present in the room were Mr. Aristides Delopolous, his Grecian name betraying his homeland, and Mr. Mehmet Nazim Bey, a Turkish engineer. I had only met them the prior evening during the gathering after Madame Dubois’ violin playing, but I recalled also observing them talking together in the dining room on my first morning at the Globe Hotel.

  When she saw me enter, Mrs. Foster turned to me. “I noted your irregularity at meals, Doctor. I was about to knock on your door. Mr. Sims just appeared and asked for a late breakfast, and I thought it would be easier if I made it for two.”

  Sims laughed. “I suspect that most of us slept late once the storm passed. I for one slept as deeply as if I had taken a large dose of castor oil.”

  Mrs. Foster nodded. “Yes, though you and the Doctor are the last of them to awaken.”

  My brow furrowed as I gazed at them, for Sims’ blue eyes clearly showed the same miniscule pupils that I possessed. “I must confess that I don’t recall sleeping so soundly since they took the Jezail bullet out of my shoulder, and treated me afterword with morphine.”

  Sims appeared puzzled. “Are you suggesting that we were under the influence of some drug, Doctor?”

  “I am.”

  “But how?” he queried.

  “It must have been in the claret.”

  “Impossible,” he scoffed. “I brought the claret.”

  “But where else could it have been for both of us to feel the same effects?” I asked him.

  “But Mrs. Foster also drank some of the wine,” protested Sims.

  “It was but a small sip after opening it,” said Mrs. Foster slowly. “But I must say, gentlemen, that I did sleep especially soundly last night and awoke much later than usual this morning.”

  “You see, Mr. Sims. The claret must have been drugged,” I concluded.

  “If we were drugged, it could have been something put in the glasses either before or after the wine was poured,” pointed out Sims.

  “If that’s the case, then there were only three of us at the table last night,” I said. “You, Monsieur Dumas, and myself. Are you suggesting that Monsieur Dumas drugged us? To what possible end?”

  “How should I know what that madman was thinking? But let’s ask him,” he looked around, as if expecting to find the Frenchman in the dining room. “Well, where is Dumas?” asked Sims, his question directed at Mrs. Foster.

  The innkeeper shrugged. “Mr. Dumas has some eccentric habits. He usually awakens before dawn and leaves the hotel before I can even make him some breakfast. He eats so little that I have wondered how it can even keep life in one. I never saw him this morning, and so I assume that he departed before I awakened.”

  I shook my head. “Not if he drank the same drugged wine that we did.”

  “Then he must still be in his room,” declared Sims.

  “Shall we find out?” I suggested.

  The three of us climbed the stairs, followed by both Mr. Delopolous and Mr. Bey, whose curiosity had clearly been awakened by our conversation. I discovered that Monsieur Dumas’ room was the one at the very end of the twisting corridor, immediately past my own. Sims knocked vigorously at the man’s door, but there was no answer. He knocked again, and called out. “Dumas! Open the door!”

  There were still no sounds emanating from the man’s room and my companions looked confounded by the next step. Finally, Mr. Delopolous spoke up with an accented voice and a raise of his eyebrows. “Perhaps we should open the door? He may be ill.”

  “Good idea,” said I. “Mrs. Foster, you must have duplicate keys?”

  “Of course,” she replied. She drew a ring of keys from her apron and, after a moment’s selection, slipped one into the keyhole. The key turned with a sharp metallic snap, but the door refused to open. “He must have barred it from the inside.”

  “Then we will have to force our way in!” exclaimed Sims. “Step back, Elizabeth!” He threw the entire weight of his Herculean frame against the stout door, which held after the first blow.

  “Put your shoulder to it!” I cried. And indeed the second blow was too much for the door. It gave way before his great strength, as one hinge snapped, then the other, and down came the door with a crash. Sims staggered into the room, but then drew up with an incoherent exclamation. None of us in the hallway could see past his enormous shoulders to spy the cause of his alarm.

  “Doctor!” he said urgently. “Get in here!”

  I pushed past him, and was thunderstruck by the appalling sight before me. In the middle of the bed lay the stretched-out figure of Dumas, his mouth horribly agape, and his body encircled by a ghastly crimson halo of blood that stained the white bed-sheets which had been drawn up to his neck. It gave even my hardened nerves a shudder to look at him. But two things made this sight even more grotesque. The first was that the man’s eyes were covered by a pair of silver coins. The later was that two letters – “E” and “M” – were painted upon his forehead in blood. These stood out in vivid relief upon his lard-colored skin.

  My attention was diverted from what was clearly Dumas’ corpse by the sound of a gasp from Mrs. Foster. Her face turned deadly white, her eyes rolled upwards and she collapsed to the floor behind me in a dead faint before anyone could catch her. I turned around and leapt to her aid, since Dumas was beyond such.
“Fetch some brandy!” I commanded the dazed Mr. Delopolous, who rallied and dashed downstairs. Meanwhile, I propped her head, its face as white as chalk, under my rolled up jacket, for certainly the pillows on Dumas’ bed would never be usable again. I contemplated the propriety of loosening the collar of her high gown amidst a group of relative strangers. Fortunately, I was spared such a decision by the speedy return of Mr. Delopolous with the brandy. I poured a bit down her throat, and she began to revive. “There! There!” said I, soothingly. “That was quite a shock.”

  “I am alright now, Doctor,” she said, a tinge of color beginning to return to her bloodless cheeks. She forced a shamefaced smile. “What has happened?”

  “I am afraid that Monsieur Dumas is dead,” I explained. “The cause is not yet clear.”

  “You must send for Constable Dunkley.”

  “Excellent idea,” said I, turning to Mr. Bey, who seemed to be the master of himself and his emotions, unfazed by the tableau before him. “Would you be so kind as to step out to locate him?”