“I am, sir,” the man agreed.
“And would you please write out this phrase for me?” Dunkley repeated the instructions that he had used with the previous guests. As Aicardi wrote, my eyes were drawn to a large splotch of red paint that smeared the tip of his index finger. It looked stunningly similar to the color of the paint used to mark Dumas’ forehead.
“That is an interesting shade of red, Signore Aicardi,” I commented, motioning to his finger. “Almost the color of blood, do you not think?”
“Ah, yes, this is a rare shade. I have to send away to my cousin Pietro Goldini, who runs a restaurant in London, in order to obtain a supply for me. It is made by an English manufacturer named Brickfall. And I agree, Doctor, that there is no other shade like it to suggest the fresh spill of blood.”
“But I thought that you were painting a boating scene this morning?”
I may have imagined it, but I thought that Aicardi’s eyes tightened a bit at this question. “You have an excellent ability to picture a setting, Doctor. It is true that when I had my epiphany about Dumas I had just removed that boating scene from my canvas, but then my eye was struck by the sight of a young girl leaning a bike up against a vivid red building in the square. None of the other colors in my paint-box were quite right, so I was forced to use the Brickfall sang instead.”
“I would like to see that picture,” I remarked. “But do you not use a brush? Why is your finger so red?”
He smiled broadly. “Brushes are quickly becoming passé, Doctor, as the new guard of artists throw off the shackles of convention and use whatever tools seem most capable of expressing the true nature of the scene.”
“So your work resembles that of Corot or Bouguereau from the modern French school, rather than one of your Renaissance countrymen, such as Raphael?”
Aicardi’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You know your art, Doctor. I think that every artist likes to believe that their style is completely original. But of course that is not true. We are always borrowing from the past, mingling it with our own unique tint, and voilà, your own style emerges. I would say that I have been most heavily influenced by Greuze and Vernet. But again, my style is all my own. The pigments are set out for the artist who has only to blend them into the expression of his own soul.”
“And have you been successful financially?”
He chuckled heartily. “Alas, no. To date, it is all art for art’s sake, sadly. But someday I hope to have at least one of my paintings hanging in one of the great Bond Street picture galleries.”
“If you want to attract customers at a London gallery, you may need to cater to their tastes. Something along the lines of Kneller or Reynolds would be preferable, I think.” I paused, deciding that a change in tact was required. “You are in excellent physical condition for an artist, Signore. In my experience, when they are not painting or writing most artists have a great fondness for tobacco, spirits, and even stronger stimuli, to the detriment of their health. In fact, I initially mistook you for a member of the army.”
“Hah!” Aicardi laughed. “No, alas, I chose not to take up arms with Garibaldi as he fought to weld Italia together. But I am a devotee of your English sport of singlestick. As you must know, Doctor, the vigorous thrust-and-parry work keeps a man in top shape.”
“This is very fascinating,” interjected the constable in a tone that suggested nothing of the kind, “but why have you come to Bermuda, Mr. Aicardi?”
Aicardi frowned. “But that is what we have been talking about!” he replied animatedly. “I have come to paint the glorious seascapes and the colorful, white-topped buildings. The combination is unique to this place.”
“I see,” said Dunkley, dryly. “And did you know Mr. Dumas before coming here?”
Aicardi shook his head violently. “No, I had never laid eyes upon that man before. And you may believe me when I say it, for what artist could possibly forget that terrible visage, so cruel and vulturine?”
“That is the second time that you used the word ‘cruel’ to describe him,” I noted. “It is an unusual term to describe a man that you had never met before.”
“Ah, of course I met him upon my arrival at the hotel, and it only took a few words for me to plumb the depths of his shriveled soul. You see, his face was so unique that I asked if he would sit for a portrait. I will not repeat the foul terms that he threw back in my face at such an innocent request. No, gentlemen, I had no need to speak with him again to determine if ‘cruel’ was the proper term for that creature.”
“And the other guests?” I persisted. “Did you know any of them before coming to Bermuda?”
Aicardi shrugged. “No.”
“And yet, two nights ago you asked Madame Dubois to perform a song. How did you know that she played the violin?”
“Ah!” the man said with a confiding smile. “You are a man, Doctor. Surely you have noted that she is an attractive woman? There is a spirituality about her face that I find comes from being inspired by the glory of music. And the lady is obviously cultured, Doctor. What cultured lady of your acquaintance does not possess at least some modicum of musical talent, either with an instrument or her voice? As you must recall, sir, the night was dreadful, and the storm threatened to tear down the very walls around us. I feared that the ladies would become nervous at the terrible noise of the winds. As an artist, I know that once I become enraptured in my work, nothing can transport me from it. All worries and concerns disappear into the canvas. I had hoped that music would do the same for her.”
I nodded slowly, thinking about this seemingly reasonable answer. “However, I also overheard you in deep conversation with Mr. Sims four days back. What was it that you said? Something about ‘when it’s over, he can finally rest?’”
This time I sensed that Aicardi’s laugh was more forced. “Ah, Mr. Sims and I had gotten into a pleasant conversation about a serial novel that we have both been reading by Mr. Collins, and we hoped to reach the end of it soon, as we are both very curious to know how he plans to conclude the story. We were speculating that it must be an exhausting task to write a serial, each chapter having to be produced by a deadline, and hoped that Mr. Collins could take a well-deserved rest once it is over. There is something to be said for the serial novel form, I suppose, but I have always been too impatient for it. I prefer to read the entire story in one fell swoop, such as is done in Beeton's Christmas Annual or Lippincott's Monthly Magazine…”
“Yes, yes,” said Dunkley, interrupting us, “let us refocus on the task at hand. Have you ever heard of aqua tofana, Mr. Aicardi?”
Aicardi’s face took on the visage of a man repulsed. “That is the weapon of Neapolitans and of women. It is not something that a gentleman from Milano knows much about.”
“And what if I told you that Mr. Dumas’ was killed by it?”
“Truly?” said Aicardi with great surprise. “I had heard that he was shot?”
“Perhaps he was shot only to hide the fact that he was poisoned?” responded Dunkley, raising one eyebrow suggestively.
“Then I would suggest that you focus your investigation, in the absence of any Neapolitans in the hotel, upon the women,” replied Aicardi, simply.
“I will do so,” retorted Dunkley in turn. “Now, other than your hypothesis about Dumas’ self-murder, is there anything else that you would like to tell us?”
Aicardi appeared to consider this. “Yes, in fact there is. I believe that there is a real possibility that this hotel is haunted.”
Dunkley’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Would you care to explain?”
“Indeed. It was your question about the Brickfall sang red that brought this incident back to my mind. You see, a painter’s pigments are part of himself. Without them, we cannot create. We are unmanned. And so, we pay exquisite attention to our supply of paints. I monitor them every day, and yet, two days ago, I noted that the jar of sang was missing from my paint-box. I searched everywhere in my room, though I knew that I had not misplaced i
t. I even asked Mrs. Foster if she or the maid-servant who cleans the rooms could have taken it. But all without success. It had mysteriously vanished.”
“I thought you said that you just used it this morning to paint a building?” I queried.
“I did. You see, Doctor, when I came downstairs yesterday morning, imagine my surprise at finding my little jar of red paint sitting on the bar in the billiard-room. I know for a fact that I did not put it there. And no one else could have had access to it or would have had a reason to take and return it, except for a mischievous spirit that can pass through locked doors. There are many old buildings in Italia that possess such phantoms. I suspect that the same must be possible in Bermuda.”
“That is another interesting theory, Mr. Aicardi,” said the constable, dryly. “Thank you for your assistance. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Not at all, gentlemen. Please do not hesitate to ask if you have other concerns. As they say in my country, ‘E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle.’”
“What was that?” asked Dunkley, a frown forming on his brow.
“It is something we say when we hope that an event comes to a happy conclusion, as I do with your investigation. Good day,” said he, rising and bowing before departing.
Once the door shut, Dunkley turned to me. “What was all that about, Doctor?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I am not certain. My Italian is limited. The final word seemed familiar, however, since much of Italian is derived from Latin. In that tongue, the word for star is ‘stella.’ It is not too much of a supposition to think that ‘stelle’ is the same word.”
“Star? What could that possibly mean? I tell you, Doctor, that this Italian is a shady character. He had too many convenient excuses, if you ask me. Do you think that he could be a member of the Mafia, the Carbonari, or the Camorra? That would explain much. The brutal killing. The macabre style of Dumas’ death bed.”
I nodded slowly. “I suppose that it is possible. But it is solely a hypothesis. We have no proof.”
“Not yet, not yet. But perhaps we will by the end of the day,” said Dunkley, coyly.
“Truly?” I said with great surprise. “What have you learned?”
“Nothing definitive. And nothing that you have not heard. But I have thought long and hard about how these stories fit together and a possibility is starting to form in my mind.”
“I will endeavor to do the same. Hopefully we arrive at the same conclusion. Now who should we see next?” I asked.
“I think we should take Mr. Aicardi’s advice. He suggested that we talk with the women. Let us see what the old Spanish lady can tell us.”
§
CHAPTER XIX
THE EVIDENCE OF THE SPANISH MARQUESA
Constable Dunkley and I agreed that it would be more appropriate for us to formally visit the Marquesa in her room rather than ask her to attend us in the parlor. As such, we decamped from our places and emerged back into the dining room. There we encountered Mrs. Foster, who was setting tables for the upcoming lunch service.
“Ah, Elizabeth,” said the constable happily. “Would you be so kind as to inform the Spanish lady that we will be calling upon her in a few moments?”
“Certainly, Harry,” replied the Proprietress. Quitting her task, she proceeded up the stairs to deliver his message.
“Now, Doctor,” said Dunkley quietly, “we must proceed with great tact. If I read her correctly, a proud old lady like her can become easily offended by the wrong questions and clam up like an oyster.”
“I will follow your lead, of course,” I replied. I pondered whether I should share with the constable my brother’s theory about the Marquesa’s potential guilt. Fortunately, the rapid return of Mrs. Foster down the stairs forestalled me from spreading any baseless slander.
“She will see you immediately,” reported Mrs. Foster.
“Excellent!” replied the constable. “Come, Doctor.”
We mounted the stairs until we reached the landing. From there we entered the twisting passage where, per Mrs. Foster’s map, the first door on the left promised to lead to the Marquesa’s room. The constable knocked on the door with a loud and authoritative tap. This was promptly rewarded by a thickly-accented voice within that bade us enter.
Twisting the handle, the constable swung the door back, and found the Marquesa calmly staring at us from behind her veil. She rested in the only armchair in the room. As we entered, she set aside a black leather-bound book, and turned her frank, searching dark eyes upon us. “Come in, gentlemen,” said she, gesturing to the ground in front of her with an overmatching dignity that compelled obedience. For a brief moment, I imagined that she expected us to kneel before her. Her demeanor was regal, and I did not doubt that the blood of the masterful Conquistadors flowed in her veins. Eventually, I realized that she was inviting us to stand before her, as the room had no other place to sit other than the bed or the already occupied chair.
Dunkley formally introduced us and the purpose of our visit, to which she merely nodded. “May I see your papers, Madame?”
Her eyes narrowed and she made no immediate move to carry out his request. “You may address me as ‘Marquesa,’ for my husband’s people have been part of the nobility of Valencia for generations.” Despite her accent, her English was flawless. “If you harbor republican notions and do not wish to use my hereditary title, then the proper form of address for a Spanish lady is ‘Senora.’ The French use ‘Madame.’ I do not.”
“I see,” replied the constable, tightly. “My apologies, Marquesa.”
She smiled grimly at her verbal victory, and then reached over to her bedside table for her papers. She handed these to Constable Dunkley with great reverence, as if they were a copy of the Magna Carta itself.
Dunkley inspected the papers for a moment, and while so doing, I studied the lady again. She was one of the few guests with whom I had virtually no interactions to date, and thus appeared to my eyes to be a great mystery. This enigma was accentuated by her tall and queenly figure, which made her appear to be speaking down to us as if from a dais, notwithstanding the fact that we literally towered over her seated position. Through her veil, I faintly made out that her face possessed a pale mask-like quality which only highlighted the emaciation of her figure. Despite the translucent quality of her skin she seemed to radiate an inner fire. Her hair was lustrous and raven-black, framing her piercing small dark Spanish eyes. Although she was now but a black-eyes shadow of her former self and no longer in the flower of youth, I had little doubt that she was once a celebrated beauty. She wore a dress nearly identical to, if not the same as, the one in which I always encountered her. It was made of an excellent midnight black silk, though the once-noted ostrich feathers were missing from this particular gown. Instead, her neck was encircled by some old Spanish jewelry made from silver and curiously-cut diamonds.
Eventually, the constable looked up from the papers and said, “You are the Marquesa Dolores Garcia Ramirez, born 1837…”
“A woman does not like to be reminded of her age, Constable,” she interrupted him.
“Ah, my apologies, Marquesa,” stammered Dunkley. He seemed at a loss of how to proceed.
After his two false starts, I decided that I must take the reins of the exchange. “Is Dolores a common name in Spain, Marquesa?”
She smiled wanly. “Indeed, Doctor. Do you know the meaning of the name?” She paused a moment for me to respond, but I decided to allow her to dictate the flow of the conversation and remained silent. “No? Surely you must know your Latin? It stems from the same root as your English word ‘dolorous.’ It means ‘sorrows.’ It is an appropriate name for so many of my fellow countrywomen.”
“And yourself?” I inquired. “Does it describe you?”
She made a sound that in a less elegant person could have been mistaken for a snort of amusement. “Oh, yes! I have worn these widow weeds for thirteen years, Doctor. And I will never put them aside, for Diego was the best husba
nd that a women could ever hope for. He was taken from me far too young, before he could grace me with a child to carry on his name. Instead, the line will die with me.”
“Is that him?” I asked, indicating a famed picture that rested on her bedside table. It showed a lithe man of about thirty, with dark eyes, immaculately-flowing black hair and a perfectly waxed moustache. He wore a military uniform that I did not immediately recognize.
She glanced over at the picture and reached out to take it. She looked at it for a moment and then clenched it to her bosom. “Yes,” she replied simply.
“Was he a soldier?”
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