The Isle of Devils

by Craig Janacek

  He nodded. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Elizabeth. And while you are doing that, if you would be so kind as to ask Mr. Sims to step in here?”

  She rose briskly from her seat and made her way to the door. Just as she was about to step out, another question entered my mind. “Have you ever been to France, Mrs. Foster?” I called out.

  She suddenly stopped and turned to look at me. “France?” her voice lifted. “No, of course not.”

  “And yet you know how to cook crepes?” I wondered aloud.

  I imagined that she hesitated for a moment. “I learned it from a guest many years ago. A French lady, Madame Dantes, stayed here for a week and was shocked at the limits of my culinary talents. She graciously agreed to teach me some of her skills, and I find that they come in handy with many of my guests from the Continent. Why do you ask?”

  I shook my head. “No reason. Just curious, I suppose.”

  “Anything else then?” she inquired sharply.

  Dunkley looked at me, but I could only shake my head. “No, I think that will be all for now, Elizabeth. Thank you,” said he.

  After she closed the door behind her, Dunkley turned to me with a troubled frown. “What are you thinking, Doctor? You cannot possibly suspect Elizabeth Foster! She has lived in Bermuda her entire life! What possible motive could she have for suddenly deciding to murder one of her guests?”

  I shook my head. “I suspect no one and everyone right now, Constable. Because I do not have a history with her, as you do, I am free of prejudices. Some of her actions and words seem suspect, but I agree that she has no conceivable motive. Let’s say no more until we have had a chance to question some of the other guests.”

  §

  CHAPTER XII

  THE EVIDENCE OF THE AUSTRALIAN RUGBY-PLAYER

  While awaiting the first guest, Constable Dunkley arose and requisitioned a few pieces of paper and a J pen from the writing desk. He had barely resumed his seat when a rap upon the door was quickly followed by the entrance of Mr. Boyle, carrying a great tray of food. At the sight of it, I immediately realized that I was famished and I was touched by this thoughtful gesture. The constable and I snatched a hurried luncheon before the arrival of Mr. Sims into our appropriated interrogation room.

  I have already described the extraordinary appearance of Mr. Sims in these pages, so suffice it to say that his great height was especially apparent as he briefly towered over us before sinking into the settee. His massive frame made that piece of furniture appear like a child’s chair. As on the day of my arrival at the Globe, he was plainly dressed in a black-frock coat. He turned the full force of his magnetic amber eyes upon us, and raised his sandy eyebrows high upon his masterful forehead. “Constable, Doctor, how can I be of assistance?”

  “May I see your identification papers, sir?” asked Dunkley, politely.

  Sims drew them from his coat pocket and handed them over for the constable’s inspection. “You are Bruce Arthur Sims, born 1840, resident of Sydney, Australia?”

  “I am.”

  “Did you grow up there?” I interjected.

  “I did.”

  “I too spent my childhood in Australia, when my father went prospecting near Melbourne,” said I, attempting to establish a rapport with the man.

  Sims grimaced. “Unfortunately, my father did not journey to Australia by choice. I will be honest with you, gentlemen, so that you do not think that I am trying to hide anything. He was transported.”

  I wish that I could report that I hid my surprise well, but I am certain that my astonishment was plain. He clearly saw the brief twitching of my eyebrows. He leaned back into the settee and ran his fingers through his leonine mane of hair. “I am not proud to call my father a convict. But his crime was a common one. One winter day he was caught poaching a deer from a nobleman’s estate. His mother was ill and he thought that some fresh meat would help her recover. A more lenient judge may have considered the extenuating circumstances. But my father had dreadful ill-luck and drew one of the harshest magistrates on the bench. At least he was not hung outright, as might have been the case in an earlier decade. He was loaded on a ship with over two hundred so-called felons, ranging from mere boys like him, guilty of only the most minor offences, to hardened rapists and murderers. Chained between decks in the hold of a rat-gutted, beetle-ridden coaster, he must have felt as if he was riding in a moldy old coffin. Treated like animals, many failed to survive the voyage. But my father had an iron constitution and upon finally landing at Botany Bay he served his seven years of hard labor without complaint. When he finally obtained his Certificate of Freedom, his family in England was no more. Rather than return to the land that had treated him so harshly, he chose to remain as a settler in Australia.”

  “I am truly sorry to hear that,” said I.

  The man shrugged his massive shoulders. “It is ancient history now, Doctor. My father has passed, and Australia is the only home that I have known.”

  Dunkley finally spoke up. “Would you be so kind to write a few words for me?” He slid the paper and pen across the low Japanese tea table that separated us from Mr. Sims.

  Sims picked up the pen. “What would you like me to write?”

  “How about the phrase: ‘you will be pleased to note?’” said Dunkley casually, as if the words had just entered his head. “And then your signature, of course.”

  Sims took up the pen in his massive left paw and quickly wrote out the requested words. Dunkley picked up the paper and studied it for a moment, before carefully folding it and placing it in his memorandum book. “You have large hands, Mr. Sims,” he observed.

  “I think they are rather proportionate to my frame,” replied Sims, stiffly. “What of it?”

  Dunkley reached into his wide-awake and drew forth the powder-stained gloves. “Have you ever seen these gloves before?”

  Sims’ eyes widened at the sight of the gloves. “I have indeed! They are mine,” he answered frankly. “Where did you find them?”

  Dunkley seemed a bit taken aback at the ease of this confession. “You admit that these are your gloves?”

  Sims narrowed his eyes and studied the constable. “I freely admit that these gloves belong to me. But they went missing two days ago. I have not seen them since.”

  “Where did you misplace them?” asked Dunkley, suspiciously.

  “I had been walking early one morning in the graveyard across the way, as I have been wont to do of late, when I sat down upon a bench to meditate. The day had begun rather cool, so I had with me my top-coat and gloves. As I sat there, the sun’s rays began to warm me, and I quickly shed those outer layers. I distinctly recall setting the gloves upon the bench next to me. Eventually, my leg began to tighten, so I rose to examine the reason for why the graveyard is separated into various parts by walls. When my curiosity had been settled, I returned to the bench to collect my coat and gloves. Imagine my surprise when the coat was there, but the gloves were missing! I looked around, but no living soul was in sight, and I could not recollect hearing anyone approach while I was away from the bench. As you must know, Constable, the graveyard is not that large.”

  “Why did you not report it to the police at the time, Mr. Sims?” asked Dunkley, with a serious mien.

  The giant snorted, the sound of which brought back thoughts of last night’s storm, so massive was his granite-like nose. “I thought it was a prank. Who would go to all of the trouble to steal a pair of worthless gloves, gloves so large as to fit very few men, and ignore the much more valuable top-coat? No self-respecting thief would do such a thing. I figured the gloves would turn up eventually. And so they have,” he concluded, motioning to the pair in Dunkley’s hands.

  “And so they have indeed, Mr. Sims,” replied Dunkley. “They have turned up in the luggage of Mr. Dumas, and as you can plainly see, they are heavily stained with gunpowder. I suspect that our murderer wore these gloves while he shot Mr. Dumas in order to avoid marking his hands.”

  “By J
ove!” Sims exclaimed with violent agitation, and he slammed his palm down upon the table. “Someone is trying to frame me! Do I look stupid enough to shoot a man and then leave my gloves at the scene of the crime? Not to mention that I was three sheets to the wind last night from whatever was put into my wine. You cannot possibly think that I did it!”

  “I am not certain, Mr. Sims,” replied Dunkley, calmly. “The good Doctor here tells me that you were certainly drugged last night. Yet it was your wine that put Mr. Dumas to sleep. And it was your gloves that protected the hands that shot the pistol. You interest me very much, Mr. Sims.”

  Sims looked Dunkley in the eyes. “I tell you that I slept more deeply last night than I have in a dozen years. After we concluded our game of whist, I was in no shape to have left my bedchambers last night.” He spoke with a deep conviction. If he was lying to us, then I judged that he was a magnificent deceiver.

  Dunkley appeared as convinced as myself. He was silent for a moment, and he appeared to be collecting his thoughts. “What brought you to Bermuda, Mr. Sims?” he finally asked.

  “I am here to recuperate.”

  “From what?” I inquired.

  “Perhaps I have neglected to mention that I am a three-quarter for the Rugby Club that we founded at Sydney University in 1864.”

  “Ah,” I said, raising my eyebrows with sudden comprehension, his great frame very similar to that of some of the other long, slab-sided, loose-limbed men that I could recall opposing.

  Sims looked at me with interest. “Have you ever played rugby, Doctor?”

  “Indeed,” I replied. “I once lined-up at pivot for the Blackheath Club.”

  “That is a prestigious Club, Doctor. Did they not draw up the original rules for the game back in 1863?”

  “I believe that is correct, Mr. Sims, though it was before my time, and I have never had much of a head for dates.”

  “Well, in any case, to play for a Club of that caliber requires both great skill and excellent endurance.”

  “Before I injured my tendo Achillis, I was reckoned fleet of foot,” replied I, modestly.

  “I too know something about injuries from our sport. That is how I did in my knee. We were playing a team of lads from the university in Cambridge, Massachusetts, when I suddenly felt like I slipped my right knee-cap.”

  “May I examine it?” I inquired. The man assented by rolling up the right leg of his trousers. I leaned across the table to feel the capsular space and the motion of the knee for a few minutes before finally giving my opinion. “Your medial collateral ligament, I believe.”

  “Yes, that’s what exactly what Dr. Holmes said,” replied Sims.

  “Dr. Holmes? Not Oliver Wendell Holmes?” I queried.

  “Yes, that was his name. I still have his card in my room, in fact. He was a rather tiny old man who had come out to see us take on the Harvard lads. He was therefore immediately at my side when I collapsed. Do you know him?”

  “Not in person, of course, but by reputation. He is one of the great reformers of modern medicine, and a gifted writer to boot. The Autocrat at the Breakfast Table, for example.”

  “Ah,” nodded Sims, reflectively. “He did seem surprised when I failed to recognize his name. But I’ve never been one for books, of course.”

  “Too bad,” I mused, shaking my head. “I would have loved to have met the great man myself. I’ve often been tempted to take up the pen myself, especially with my injuries accumulating. In fact, I once injured my own medial collateral when Big Bob Ferguson, the three-quarter for Richmond, threw me over the ropes at the Old Deer Park. Like me, you should heal in about ten to twelve weeks, if you stay off it.”

  “Yes, that’s what Dr. Holmes said too. Though I’ve never taken well to inactivity. At first, I thought I could shave some of that time by recuperating on board the ship to England where my Club was headed next. But I soon found that walking on the wave-tossed decks caused even more harm. I cannot bear to stay off my feet entirely, so I disembarked at Hamilton in order to allow my knee to heal fully before re-joining my Club. The hotels over yonder were prohibitively expensive, so I made my way to this quiet little stretch of the island. At least it was quiet until a dead man turned up in the room next to mine!”

  “And what will you do once your injuries become insurmountable?” I inquired. “Rugby is a young man’s sport.”

  Sims leaned back and took a woven pouch from his coat-pocket. At first I thought that he was going to take a pinch of snuff, but instead he removed a small nip of green leaves and slipped it between his teeth and gums. “That is the exact question that I was pondering the other morning in the graveyard. Intimations of mortality, if you will. For many years, my natural gifts have allowed me to absorb a fearful number of injuries. But even the strongest constitution is not proof against the ravages of time. I will soon have to hang up my cleats for good. To be honest, though I would love to re-join my Club in their tour of England and Ireland, I may not physically be able. This knee injury could be the proverbial drop that made the cup run over. But I’ve never played rugby for money. I have a small annuity, as well as some stock invested at Mawson’s. I’ve always played for the sheer sport of the game, which is the best and soundest thing in the world. That is what I will miss the most. The camaraderie of a group of individuals striving towards a common goal, through both good times and bad. When it is finally over, I suppose that I will have to reinvent my life.”

  A silence descended upon the three of us as we considered his words. Finally, the constable broke the silence, appropriately as he was both the youngest of us and the least damaged. “Did you know the dead man, Mr. Sims?”

  He shook his head and intensely looked Dunkley in the eyes. “I swear to you, Constable, on the grave of my father, that until last night’s game of whist I had never spoken to the man before.”

  Once again, I was absolutely convinced of his veracity. “How about any of the other guests?”

  He shrugged and shook his head. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “You certainly seemed intent on a conversation with Dr. Nemcek when I first arrived at the Globe. And then later I noted you walking with Signore Aicardi in the graveyard. Are you certain that you are not prior acquaintances?”

  Sims snorted again and then laughed. “Honestly, Doctor. If I only spoke to people that I am familiar with, then I would never meet anyone new! As I told you before, I have never been one to spend time reading. I enjoy nothing so much as a good conversation. Both Dr. Nemcek and Mr. Aicardi are very interesting individuals. As you are yourself, Doctor. I think we had a nice talk the other day about Mr. Shakespeare and his plays. Does that mean that we have once met? Perhaps in a scrum?” concluded Sims, a tone of sarcasm evident in his voice.

  “I think that will be all, Mr. Sims,” said Dunkley. “Can you please ask Mrs. Foster to send in Mr. Cordeiro?”

  As the man unlimbered his giant frame from the settee, he once again towered over us for a moment before moving towards the door. “Good day, gentlemen, and good luck in solving this case. I for one would be most curious to know who drugged me.”

  Once the door was closed behind him, Dunkley turned to me. “Well, that’s a fine specimen of manhood, I think. And he seemed brutally honest. It’s a rare man that would admit to being the son of a convict.”

  I nodded. “That’s true. But did you notice the leaves that he was chewing on?”

  “Yes, what were they? Some form of strange Australian tobacco?”

  “I think not. I am not aware of a green chewing tobacco. Unless I am greatly mistaken, those were the leaves of the coca plant.”

  Dunkley frowned. “I’m not familiar with those, Doctor”

  “Chewing coca leaves increases nervous energy, removes drowsiness, enlivens the spirits, and enables the user to bear great hardships with apparent ease and impunity.”

  “Are you saying that Mr. Sims could have been immune to the effects of the drug in the wine? That the coca leaves would have
prevented drowsiness, but left the effect upon his pupils so that he appeared as affected as you and Dumas?” asked Dunkley, pointedly.

  I shook my head in confusion. “I do not know for certain, but I think it is a possibility, at least.”

  “Damn! Perhaps Sims is our man after all. It would be diabolically clever to willingly take the drug as a means to get at Dumas, while simultaneously diverting suspicion from himself.”

  “There is only one problem with that theory, Constable. I don’t believe that any amount of coca leaves would have allowed a giant like Sims to descend that flimsy ladder in the midst of a raging storm. He is not faking that knee injury, and the ladder simply would not have born his weight.”

  §

  CHAPTER XIII