The Isle of Devils

by Craig Janacek

  She bowed her head for a moment and then drew out a handkerchief to dab at her damp eyes. Finally she looked up at me and responded. “Indeed. Diego served in the King's Own Immemorial 1st Infantry Regiment, Spanish Army, which is considered by historians to be the oldest armed unit in the world.”

  “And did he fall in battle?”

  Her face contracted as if in pain and her mouth set into a grim line. “Doctor, some inquiries are offensive. I do not wish to talk about this subject any more. It is too painful to me. Perhaps for some the passage of thirteen years serves to dull the ache, but for me, each day that I live without him is worse than the one that it followed. Do you have any questions that are pertinent to your investigation?”

  “I am saddened for your loss, Marquesa. I too know something of the terrible cost of war.” I found myself absently rubbing my wounded shoulder. “May I ask where you last resided, Marquesa?”

  “Most recently I was at the Hotel Escurial in Madrid. Before that I had summered at Davos Platz, in Switzerland. Why do you ask?”

  For the moment I ignored her question. “I noticed that you do not travel with a maidservant? I find that a tad unusual for a lady of your station, Marquesa, unless these things are handled in a different way in Spain?”

  She narrowed her eyes and glared at me. “She displeased me. I dismissed her.”

  “I see,” said I, non-committally. “It is simply that this is an unusual hotel in which to find a Spanish Marquesa. It is a bit homely. I would have thought that you would have preferred to spend your layover in Bermuda at the posh Hamilton Hotel.”

  The Marquesa pursed her lips and glanced back and forth between me and the constable. “Gentlemen, will you give me your word of honor that what I am about to tell you never leaves this room?”

  I immediately acquiesced, but Dunkley shook his head. “I am afraid that I cannot do that, Marquesa, if it touches upon this case.”

  “I assure you that it does not,” said the lady grimly.

  “Then you have my word,” replied Dunkley.

  She paused for a moment, as if to gather her strength. “Gentlemen, I will take you fully into my confidence. I am ashamed to admit that the Garcia Ramirez estate, while ancient in its nobility, is no longer financially solvent. For some time after my husband’s death a sufficient endowment had allowed me to live in a style befitting our name. However, I now find that matters have changed for the worse, and I have been forced to diminish my staff, as well as the comforts that I take. That is the true reason that I dismissed my maidservant. That is why I am not staying at the Hamilton Hotel. And that is why I am travelling to Florida. I plan to live in its charming climate with my sister and her husband.”

  I was unsure of how to respond appropriately to this display of embarrassing confidence. My colleague, however, appeared to possess less qualms. “What about the jewels around your neck? Couldn’t you sell those?”

  Her free hand flew to her diamond necklace and she shook her head violently. Her eyes hardened. “These were a wedding present from my husband, Constable. They are a part of me, as if they were attached to my skin. They shall be taken from me only when the last breath has left this body.” The passion in her voice was unmistakable.

  The constable appeared to wither under this assault, and I determined that it would be appropriate to divert the flow of the questioning. My eyes travelled about her room until they alighted upon a framed portrait of a man resting upon the dressing table. It clearly belonged to her and was not part of the regular furnishings of the place. The man had a distinguished face, with incisive deep blue eyes beneath dark brown hair touched with grey about the temples. He wore a red coat decorated with the insignia of a British Field Marshall. Like any true Englishman, I immediately recognized the Duke of Wellington. “I must say, Marquesa, that I am surprised to find a picture of Sir Arthur Wellesley in your chamber.”

  She did not bother to turn around. “I always travel with it. Besides my husband, I like to look upon a great man every night before I sleep. I draw strength from it.”

  “But he is an Englishman?”

  “Bah,” said she, dismissively. “I care not for where he was born. I care about what he did. He marched into Spain with but a handful of men and swept the perfidious French back past the Pyrenees.”

  “You do not care for the French, Marquesa?” I inquired, my eyebrows rising.

  She smiled grimly at me. “Ah, I see, Doctor. You are clever. Yes, I freely admit that I possess an animosity for the French as a whole. But no more so than is typical for any Spaniard after what they have done to our country. Do you know Goya? He depicts it well. The question is whether that is sufficient motive to snuff out a single Frenchman’s life?” She paused and stared us in the eyes, first myself and then the constable, before continuing. “The answer is ‘no.’ My ill feelings are not directly at any one individual, such as the unfortunate Monsieur Dumas, but merely against the entire mass of them, which is too great an enemy for these frail arms to take on.” She held up her arms as if to demonstrate her weakness, before re-clutching the portrait of her husband.

  “Not to mention that the other Frenchman is still hale and hearty, as far as we know,” interposed the constable.

  She straightened up and narrowed her eyes to peer at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Dubois,” explained Dunkley. “I’ve not heard that he had any misfortunes during the night.”

  “Ah, yes, exactly,” said she, appearing to slump a bit. “If Monsieur Dubois is still breathing, then I think you must discount any theories that Dumas was assassinated because of his nationality.”

  “So who do you think killed Monsieur Dumas, Marquesa?” I asked.

  “You ask the wrong question, Doctor. Not a ‘who’ but a ‘what!’”

  I furrowed my brow. “I am afraid that I am not following you, Senora.”

  “The door was locked from the inside, was it not? What kind of man could accomplish such a thing? But a vengeful spirit…” her voice trailed off as her eyebrows lifted suggestively.

  “Are you implying that Monsieur Dumas was killed by a ghost?”

  “It is the only explanation!”

  If I have one quality upon earth, it is common sense, and nothing will persuade me to believe in such a thing. “I am not certain that I am prepared to accept a supernatural explanation,” said I, tactfully. “The world seems large enough without including that element. The advance of science is sweeping away the primitive superstitions of the past.”

  She glared at me. “Scoff if you want, Doctor, but your doubt does not abrogate their existence. I know in my heart of hearts that there is a realm in which the answers of science are helpless. From the minute I checked in, I have felt the presence of a ghost in this very building. But better than that… I have actually witnessed one! Late last night, I left my room and began to walk down the hall. I tried to walk as silently as possible given the coconut matting on the floor, but it is impossible to move without making at least a modicum of noise. You can therefore imagine my surprise when I saw someone advancing towards me, though my ears heard nothing. And then I realized that I could see her far too clearly given the darkness of the passage, as if she glimmered in her own emitted light. She wore only a bone white gown, but it was her face which held my gaze. She was deadly pale – never have I seen a figure so white. I knew then that she was not of this world, for only a ghost could look like that. Within seconds the temperature dropped at least fifteen degrees and the hairs on my arms stood erect. It sent a chill to my heart. The only sound was my frightened breathing as she stopped and stared at me. And then, in an instant, she was gone. The hall became warm again, but I elected to forsake the call of nature and rapidly returned to my room for the rest of the night. Though the lock on the door gave me little comfort, and I remained awake until dawn’s rosy rays brightened my window.”

  I glanced at the constable skeptically, but to my surprise he appeared to take her story seriously. Nevert
heless, I shook my head. “But why would a Bermudian ghost feel vengeance against Monsieur Dumas specifically? Why have the remaining guests been left unharmed?”

  “A ghost does not need a reason, Doctor! Reason is the instrument of the living, not the dead. The worst of them hate anything with blood flowing through its veins. But I sensed that this particular ghost may not be so capricious. Perhaps she only sought out a victim who was most similar to the one who wronged her in life? As a woman, I was left untouched, but who knows what secrets lay buried in Monsieur Dumas’ past? Certainly many an innocent woman has been hanged near this very spot!”

  The constable shook his head, “Those were witches, I am afraid.”

  “Bah!” she scoffed. “One man’s witch is another man’s wise-woman. Constable, can you be certain that justice was done in every case?”

  Dunkley failed to meet her eyes. “No, of course not! It was a long time ago. The last hanging of a witch in Bermuda happened over one hundred fifty years ago.”

  “And what does a spirit care for the clocks of the living?” replied the Marquesa dismissively. “If only I had known how thick this island was with spirits, I would have brought Jimson weed with me to protect my room. They cannot abide the smell.”

  I frowned at this pronouncement, “Jimson weed? I have read of this. Its consumption is highly hallucinogenic and poisonous.”

  “So?” was her haughty reply, as if she did not mind being tangentially accused of being a poisoner. “Did he die of poison then? Was that before or after the seven gunshots?”

  I nodded reluctantly at the apparent truth to that statement. I decided to try one last approach at a broadside. “Marquesa, I was wondering what currency you are travelling with?”

  She stared at me for a moment before replying. “Are you asking, Doctor, if the silver reales that you found on the dead man’s eyes belonged to me?”

  I nodded, impressed by her acumen. “How did you know about the reales, Marquesa?”

  “This is a small hotel, Doctor,” she scoffed. “People talk. As for your reales, I would have to see them to be certain.”

  Dunkley reluctantly reached into his satchel where he had secreted the evidence of the case and brought out the coins.

  “May I?” she asked, awaiting the constable’s nod before taking the coins from his hand. She studied them for a moment and then handed them back. “The answer is ‘no.’ They do not belong to me. They are the coins of a different era, when the Spanish Fleet still ruled the Caribbean, before our colonies were lost. More than fifty years ago. No one uses coins such as these now.”

  “Thank you, Marquesa,” said I, turning to my colleague, “Constable, do you have any other questions for the Marquesa?” I wondered if he was going to ask for a sample of her handwriting, though it seemed obvious that the mysterious note in Dumas’ room could only have been penned by a masculine hand.

  Evidently he agreed with me, as he forsook any attempt to do so. “No,” he stammered, apparently overwhelmed by either her aristocratic bearing or her ghostly tale. “Thank you for your assistance, Marquesa.”

  Her only reply was a dismissive nod, and we silently backed our way out of the room. When we had regained the landing, we both paused and emitted long sighs.

  The constable snorted in exasperation. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Doctor. All of these tales of ghosts and spirits, I feel like we have stumbled into a Grimm’s fairy tale.”

  While there was something eerie and ghost-like about the Marquesa, I resolutely shook my head. “I refuse to find credence in a supernatural explanation. No ghost fired a revolver into Monsieur Dumas. No ghost wrote in paint upon his forehead or placed those coins upon his eyes.”

  He appeared to pull himself together. “Yes, I suppose you are right, Doctor.” And then he said the words that I had been dreading all morning. “Well, we might as well continue with the female guests. Let us talk next to the American lady, Mrs. Lucy Dubois.”

  §

  CHAPTER XX

  THE EVIDENCE OF THE AMERICAN LADY

  I had known that this moment was inevitable, but that did not make it any easier to face. Nonetheless, I am capable of putting up with many hardships, and so I put on my bravest face. “I agree. Do you think that we should question her in the presence or absence of her husband?”

  Dunkley shrugged. “If they are culpable, they have had sufficient time in which to coordinate their stories, but I still think that we shall have higher odds for a moment of unguarded honesty if we talk with them separately.”

  “The parlor then?”

  The constable nodded and we decamped back downstairs. We found that the dining room was temporarily deserted, so Dunkley went in search of Mrs. Foster. During his absence, I attempted to explore my emotions. I knew that my attraction to Lucy was an impossible infatuation. It went against every fiber of my being. And yet her appeal was almost magnetic, as if I had no more say in the matter than the needle of a compass did when it was drawn to the north. Fortunately, this introspection did not last long, as Dunkley and Mrs. Foster returned promptly.

  “Come, Doctor, we will await her in the parlor, while Elizabeth requests her presence.”

  The two of us settled into our usual chairs, and while we waited I explained that I already had some interactions with Madame Dubois where I had learned about the death of her father. Dunkley nodded at this information, but did not have a chance to comment, for within a few minutes a knock had sounded upon the door. The door then swung open and Lucy entered. It may have been a trick of the light behind her, which framed her face, but I could have sworn that I saw a halo gleaming about her unbound lustrous red hair.

  “Pray take a seat, Mrs. Dubois,” said the constable.

  My senses drank her in as she gracefully established herself upon the settee. Her green eyes were shining this morning, and her lips parted, a pink flush upon her lightly freckled cheeks. Her frangipani perfume was pleasingly subtle. She was dressed in a gown of a white diaphanous material, with the smallest touch of emerald green at the neck and waist. It was a simple dress, without the cluster of fanciful touches that many women use to distract from the plainness of their features. Instead, her remarkable beauty shone like a beacon in this small room. Then she smiled shyly, and I was reminded of her great youth.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said she, opening the conversation, her melodious voice a balm for my soul. “Where I come from, we don’t like to beat around the bush, so I will just come out and say it. I have been conversing with the other guests that you have questioned. I know you are hoping that I will suddenly confess everything to you, but I am afraid that nothing is further from the truth. I swear to you, upon all that I hold sacred, that I’ve never met Monsieur Dumas before I arrived upon Bermuda, and in fact, I never even said a word to the man before his death. His countenance was not one that invited pleasant conversation.” Her eyes turned to me as she said this, and I imagined that she silently added, ‘unlike what we shared in the garden.’

  “Yes, that’s very well, but you understand that we still have to question you, as we have done with everyone else who was staying at the Globe when Dumas was killed,” replied Dunkley. “You may know something without even realizing it.”

  She shrugged, almost gaily. “Why of course, Constable. Fire away, I have nothing to hide. I have never been questioned by the police before. I expect it may prove to be a fascinating experience. Though,” she said, looking about the pleasant little parlor, “the atmosphere leaves much to be desired. I had imagined something rather danker, perhaps with some rats scurrying in the darkest corner? And maybe the slow dripping of water? This settee is terribly comfortable. Are you certain that you do not need to tie me to a chair?” she concluded, a mischievous smile braking out upon her face.

  I couldn’t help but laugh, to which the constable threw me a sour look. “There will hopefully be no need for that,” said he, without a trace of humor in his voice. “Do not forget, Madame, that a man wa
s viciously murdered two nights ago not twenty feet from where you slept. May I see your papers?”

  “Certainly, Constable,” she replied more soberly. “I apologize if I made light of the situation.” She promptly removed her documents from her handbag and handed them over.

  Dunkley inspected them for a moment and then looked up. “You are Mrs. Lucy Dubois, née Harrier, born 1860 in San Francisco, California?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And your father’s name was?”

  “Iain. Iain Harrier.”

  “Was he born in ‘Frisco?”

  Her brow furrowed slightly. “I have never been fond of that hideous shortening of the name of my fair city, Constable.”

  “My apologies, Madame,” said he, bowing his head slightly.

  “Apology accepted,” she smiled and the crease in her forehead vanished as quickly as it had come. “The answer to your question is ‘no.’ He was born in the north of England, Durham I believe. My grandparents had him late in life. His older sister, who I have never met, remained behind when they immigrated to Philadelphia in the eastern United States. But when he was a young man, almost still a boy really, the great Californian gold rush commenced, and like so many others he chased his dreams westward.”