“May I have you write a phrase for me, sir?” inquired the constable, pushing a piece of paper towards him.
“Certainly,” said Delopolous, leaning forward to quickly scratch out the same phrase as the others. ‘Will there be anything more?”
“Not for tonight,” replied Dunkley. “But please remain at the hotel for now. We may have more questions in the morning.”
Delopolous nodded his acquiescence and rose smoothly from the settee. Once the door had closed behind him, the constable turned to me. “What do you make of him, Doctor?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Like most of the other guests, his story seems eminently reasonable.”
“And yet, if there was one man capable of descending that ladder during the storm, I believe that a sailor would be the most obvious,” said Dunkley.
“But what about his lumbago?” I protested.
“You are too trusting, Doctor. Did you see him grimace when he rose from his seat? Did you see him groan when he leaned forward to write? No! Does that sound like a man with lumbago?”
“You believe he is malingering?” said I, somewhat shocked.
“Why not? And you saw his denim trousers… the favorite dress of the sailor due to its fast drying properties. If he wore denim during his excursion upon the ladder, it would be more than dry by now.”
“Well, that certainly sounds plausible,” I admitted slowly. But as I considered this possibility, I began to doubt it. I finally shook my head. “No, I will not put stock in that theory. Even if your conjecture is true, it would have required nerves of steel. And of all of the guests, Mr. Delopolous and Mr. Bey have the best alibis, for it is highly unlikely that either could have left the garret without the other knowing. It is either one of the guests that we previously questioned, or one of those still remaining on the list.”
Dunkley nodded agreeably. “Yes, you are likely correct, Doctor. I think it is too late to do any further interviews tonight. Let us both ponder what we have seen and heard today, and perhaps things will be clearer in the bright light of the morn.” He stood up, and I made to follow him, albeit more slowly, as a wave of fresh pain shot up my not-yet fully recuperated leg.
Dunkley opened the door leading to the dining room where the guests still congregated, buzzing like an overturned bee-hive. At his appearance, the sounds of conversation died away. Looking over his shoulder I saw many anxious faces peering back at him. Like birds to a lighthouse, my eyes were drawn to her and I found that only one gaze did not appear to be turned on the constable. A glint from those brilliant green eyes was like a spark from a flint. She utterly captivated me. If Madame Lucy Dubois was troubled by the murder that occurred in such close proximity, her lightly freckled brow failed to show it. I looked away before I lost my senses in those eyes and became carried away by the will-o’-the wisps of my imagination.
Dunkley addressed the crowd in a carrying voice, despite the relatively small size of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you that had the patience to submit to our enquiries today, I thank you for your cooperation. For those of you that we have yet to question, namely Mr. Warburton, Mr. Aicardi, Mr. and Mrs. Dubois, and Marquesa Garcia Ramirez, rest assured that we will take your statements in the morning. Furthermore, until the investigation is complete, I must ask all of you to remain at the Globe. If you need fresh air, you may take a short walk within the immediate confines of St. George’s, but please do not stray more than a few minutes from the hotel, so that you can be recalled if needed for further questioning. Please do not even consider attempting to leave the island. I will be informing all of the port authorities and ship’s captains of your names and descriptions, with orders that you are confined to Bermuda until this investigation has been properly concluded.”
As soon as it was clear that his speech was concluded the crowd erupted in protest. So rapidly did everyone speak that it was difficult to parse out the source of the individual complaints. Some apparently had plans to leave Bermuda for appointments elsewhere, either in Europe or the Americas. Others appeared to have no specific arrangements but simply objected to being treated like a suspect. Perhaps the most reasonable complaint came from a visibly upset Mr. Warburton. “Now see here, Constable. You propose to leave us in a hotel with someone who you suspect of being a murderer? What is to stop him from killing again tonight?”
Dunkley shook his head. “I believe that everyone in this room is safe. The slaying of Mr. Dumas was not a random act of some madman. Someone had a specific motive for seeing him dead. The rest of you should be in no danger.”
Warburton did not appear satisfied by this answer. “But what if one of us that you have not yet questioned possesses critical information that the murderer does not wish to have revealed? That would seem to be motive enough. Spending another night in this hotel is like living on top of a volcano!”
At this terrible suggestion, the Marquesa sank down into a chair, visibly upset. Madame Dubois immediately went to her side and began to provide whispered comfort. Dunkley meanwhile licked his lips and pondered this for a moment. “Do you possess such information, Mr. Warburton? It would have been better if you had volunteered this earlier.”
Warburton quickly shook his head. “No, no. I do not know anything of use. It was purely hypothetical. But who knows what twisted beliefs lurk in the mind of a murderer? Just because I do not think that I know anything useful, does not guarantee that the murderer also considers it prudent to let us live.”
Dunkley smiled sardonically. “If anyone who has yet to be questioned would like to do so now, I would be happy to talk with them. However, by your logic Mr. Warburton, no one is truly safe, for even those that have already been interviewed may still possess some unrevealed piece of information that turns out to be a critical clue. Fortunately for you, the murderer cannot kill everyone in the hotel without making his identity crystal clear.”
Warburton’s brow knit even further at this pronouncement. “And how do you propose that we remain safe until you determine who he is?”
“I would lock your door,” replied the constable, dryly.
Warburton shook his head. “I heard from Mr. Bey that Dumas’ door was locked. And yet little good it did him. The murderer still found a way in!”
“If you are that concerned, then I would recommend that you also bar the door and lock the window. Now, does anyone else have anything that they would like to report tonight?” He paused for a moment, but was met with only silence. “No? Then I bid you good-night. I think we will start with you tomorrow, Mr. Warburton. Shall we say eight o’clock here in the parlor? Doctor, I trust that you will join us?”
I murmured my agreement, and bid Constable Dunkley a pleasant evening. He replied in a similar vein, though I doubted that I would find much peace that night. Between the conflict of emotions in my breast and the tumult of questions in my brain, I was completely out of sorts. The crowd began to disperse, and I stood by the door leading to the stairs, lost in deep contemplation. I was jolted from this state by the feeling of someone brushing against my arm. I looked up suddenly, but only caught a glimpse of Madame Dubois mounting the stairs, her light green gown trailing behind her. For a moment, as the stairs turned the corner, I thought I saw her briefly glance downwards towards me, and a half smile curled up one corner of her mouth. And then she was lost from view, but the dwindling frou-frou of her skirts rustled in my ears and the frangipani scent of her perfume lingered in my nose as I pondered her intentions. Fortunately, my attention was soon focused upon the arrival of my brother Henry, who bounded through the front door of the hotel.
“Ham!” he exclaimed. “What the devil is going on here? I can’t seem to leave you alone, brother, without you getting into some sort of adventure! First, you acquire all of that Jezail lead, and then a man is shot to death in the room next to you! What’s next? A rendezvous with royalty? Now tell me all about it!”
The two of us repaired to a nearby table, where Mrs. Foster brought me the supper
that I had missed, as well as two glasses and a Venetian carafe filled with an excellent Chianti. We spoke in low voices, and paused whenever someone drew near, but eventually I divulged everything that I knew about the case.
When I was finished, Henry sat back with a sigh. He nodded toward the door. “Come outside, brother.” The two of us pushed back from the table and taking our hats, we ambled out to King’s Square. All was sweet and mellow and peaceful in the golden evening light, such a contrast to the physical turmoil inside the hotel, and the emotional turmoil in my breast. “What a mess, Ham! I’ve never seen anything like it. Since the War Between the States ended, St. George’s has been such a quiet place. This is shocking. What do you make of it? Have you formed any definite conceptions as to who is responsible?”
I shook my head. “I admit that I am at a loss. Everyone that we have talked to today has an excellent story for why they are in Bermuda, and none have a good reason why they would want to kill Dumas. Although there were many clues in his room, they do not appear to point towards anyone in particular. Perhaps our questioning of the remainder of the guests tomorrow will shed some light upon the subject.”
Henry nodded. “I would wager that the old Spanish lady did it.”
My eyebrows rose in surprise. “Whatever makes you think that?”
He shrugged. “There is something morbid, something Gothic, about the whole death-scene that you described. She fits that mold the best, with her black dress and veil. Mark my words, she will have some dark secret in her past. The Spanish are a nation of sinister folk!”
I shook my head. “I am certain that you are wrong, brother. The Spanish have passionate blood, but you paint with too broad a stroke when you assign an entire race to villainy.”
Henry nodded amiably. “Perhaps you are right, Ham. Only time will tell. I hope Dunkley gets to the bottom of this soon. He’s a good man, if a bit unimaginative. It’s a good thing that he has you by his side. Perhaps you will see a spark where all is dark to him. I’m certain that your imagination is plenty active, courtesy of all those yellow-backed novels that you read.”
I cocked my head. “I cannot tell if you mean that as a compliment or an insult, brother.”
“If you catch the murderer, consider it a compliment. If not, the latter,” said he, laughing.
I snorted. “I will do my best to assist the constable, if only to prevent a terrible falling out between us! Tell me, brother, do they still permit dueling here in the colonies?”
“Hah! Sorry, old chap, but the same laws apply here as in mother England. No duels since 1815, I’m afraid. You will just have to catch the chap that offed poor Dumas to avoid a quarrel.”
“Speaking of that, I have a favor to ask of you, Henry. I met a librarian over at Dockyard, when I first arrived. His name was Shilling, I think. Do you know him?”
Henry frowned at first, and then laughed. “You must mean old man Penny. Yes, of course, I know the old complainer.”
“Could you send him a telegram? I want him to identify something for me.”
“What is it?”
I described the flame-arising-from-a-ring symbol that we had found on the jack-knife in Dumas’ room. “It must mean something. I want him to tell me what it is.”
Henry nodded. “Certainly, brother. If anyone on this island can figure that out, it would be Dr. Penny. He’s a bit odd, but still sharp as a tack. I will send your enquiry off tonight from Fort George. It’s a bit of a detour from my way back to Fort St. Catherine but, Ham, you will appreciate the name of the road that the Fort lies off – the Khyber Pass.” He motioned off to the west, where the sky’s last red streaks had faded away and night had settled upon the white roofs. A few faint stars were gleaming in what was still a violent sky. “Not far from where you convalesced in Peshawar, if I recall my geography correctly,” he concluded.
I nodded. “That’s correct, brother.” But I didn’t elaborate. My mind was elsewhere. Henry’s reminder of the base hospital brought with it thoughts of Miss Violet Devere. I gloomily wondered where she had gone. Did she still think of me? Or had she moved on to some dashing officer with a strong pair of legs and a stronger bank account than I? Worse yet, if she still cared for me, was my foolish attraction to the married Madame Lucy Dubois a terrible betrayal of Violet? I felt as if I had marked my zero-point.
Henry obviously could sense my inner turmoil and bade me farewell for the night. I staggered back into the hotel and upstairs, scarcely more aware of my surroundings than I had been during the previous drugged evening. I retired to my room, where I vaguely noted that the light of the moon was shining brightly through the windows. Falling into a brown study, I plunged furiously into the latest treatise upon the utility of bone marrow examination for the diagnosis of blood cell proliferations. For a few moments I thought that I was successful at purging my mind of all thoughts of her smile, the sweet tones of her voice, the strange mystery that overhung all. But who was it that I tried to forget… Violet or Lucy?
§
CHAPTER XVII
THE EVIDENCE OF THE ENGLISH NATURALIST
The day was just breaking when I awoke the following morning, and I was amazed to see sunlight streaming through my window shade. The day before had been such a chaotic blur that I never fully realized that the terrible storm of two nights prior was but a distant memory and the natural glorious sunshine of the island had returned. I recalled lying awake, tossing and tumbling half the night, brooding over the strange problem in which I had become inexorably enmeshed. I devised a dozen theories, each of which was more impossible than the last and all of which had fled from my brain when the first beams of sunlight began to penetrate my eyelids. I shifted, and the monograph that I had been reading in bed fell from my chest. I suddenly recalled my duty of the morning, namely to assist Constable Dunkley in the examination of the remaining guests. It was a task that I had little stomach for, since one of those yet to be questioned was Madame Lucy Dubois, and I wondered how I was to face her, with her eyes lingering upon me the entire time.
However, I have never been one to shirk my responsibilities, and I swung out of bed and began to prepare for the day. I reached into the chest of drawers to remove my suit for the day, when I startled back as if bit by a swamp adder. I noted that my clothes appeared more untidy than usual. Not that I am in the least bit prim, but the rough-and-tumble work in Afghanistan has made me rather more lax than befits a medical man. Nonetheless, it was not the disarray of my garments that shocked me. For there in my drawer, lying calmly next to my own clothes, was a red heelless Persian slipper made of the finest velvet. My mind whirled at the wonderment of how it had found its way into my room, and what its presence could possibly mean. I determined to show it to the constable immediately in hopes that he could puzzle it out. In the meantime, however, I decided that carrying the slipper through the hotel for all to see was a poor idea and I tucked it back into the drawer from which it came.
As soon as I was ready, I made my way back through the twisting hall and down the stairs. Upon entering the dining room, I happened to catch glimpse of Boyle carrying a withered potted plant out of Senhor Cordeiro’s room. “What ails, Mr. Boyle?”
He looked up with a start. “Ah, good morning to you, Doctor. Nothing ails, as far as I know.”
“It seems to me that the sorry specimen in your arms would disagree,” said I, motioning to the dead plant.
“Hah,” he laughed heartily. “I’m afraid that this patient is past your powers of resurrection, Doctor, even knowing what you did for little Benji a few days back.”
He seemed at ease, but a queer glint in his eye caught my attention and induced me to continue the conversation. “What do you think happened to it?”
“Don’t reckon I know. Funny things, plants. When you don’t want them to grow, there is no getting rid of them, like the weeds in our vegetable garden. And when you want them to grow…” he trailed off and looked significantly at the plant, which I recognized as a variety of o
rchid.
Something rang false in his explanation, for the climate of Bermuda seemed conducive to the growth of virtually all plants. “Hmmm,” I replied. “May I take a look at it?”
“Of course, Doctor,” said he, with a hint of a stammer, setting the pot down upon the nearest table.
A quick glance at the rare and precious former bloom itself confirmed Boyle’s surmise that it was dead. But something in the soil caught my eye. I had once read an elementary book on botany and, since my memory is like a steel trap, the words seemed fresh in my brain. I knew that a careful balance of the acidic and alkaline in the soil was crucial to the health of a flowering plant. But mixed in with the usual brown dirt were some small red specks, almost crystalline in nature. I pinched a small amount between my thumb and index finger and rubbed them together, trying to ascertain where I had seen something like this before. The answer seemed to elude me, like a will-o-the-wisp.
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