The gunfire from the Creole’s men appeared to be tapering off, until Harrier heard a final shot ring out. He noted this one much more clearly than any other gunshot that he had ever heard before. The name echoed in his brain. Moreau. Moreau. And then he felt an agonizing pain, sharper than any prior hurt. He couldn’t localize the pain; it seemed to be coming from everywhere. But it was soon washed away by an embracing darkness. Moreau. Moreau. And then a final thought…Lucy….
§
CHAPTER XXV
THE CONSTABLE’S DILEMMA
The silence of the room when I finished my tale was deep and profound. Everyone had listened spellbound to this fantastic narrative. Only the creaking wheels of a cart being driven down Duke of York Street punctuated the stillness. Excepting only the incredulous constable, the faces of the men surrounding me were grim, while the women’s faces were fixed into emotionless masques. But I thought I detected a hint of tears forming in the corners of Lucy’s eyes.
“You have a lively imagination, Doctor,” said Sims finally, a firm and even tone to his voice. “That is a cock-and-bull story if I’ve ever heard one.”
“Perhaps,” I admitted. “It is all conjecture and surmise. I don’t insist that every detail is exact. But I think I have aimed close to the mark. It has at least an answer for everything. It is too monstrous a coincidence to suppose that a group of individuals, all with military attributes or connections, could have come together in this tiny hotel by chance alone. I think that less than half of your section made it out of that forest alive, Ralph Foster with enough lead in his chest that it would trouble his health for the shortened remainder of his life. If they had appeared in Europe without the Emperor’s jewels, with which they had been entrusted, the survivors would have been looked upon with the greatest suspicion. They likely decided never to rejoin the Legion, but rather to make their own way in the world. However, before they separated I suspect that the survivors of that ambush agreed to hunt down and extract revenge upon the man who betrayed their mission, regardless how far across the globe he tried to flee. Without Harrier’s letter from Moreau, it likely took the survivors many years to learn the exact identity of who stood to profit from such a perfidy. Many of them took other professions in order to survive, but the common yearning for justice never died in anyone’s heart. For those surviving men of the Légion étrangère were avenging more than just the deaths of their friends and leaders. They were avenging the death of Emperor Maximilian himself. Despite braving a three month siege, perhaps always hoping that the jewels that he sent with Commandant Harrier would soon purchase succor, Maximilian was finally captured by the forces of Benito Juarez. A travesty of a court-martial sentenced him to death. Despite telegrams of protest from the leaders of Europe, and even the great French writer Victor Hugo, a firing-squad soon ended the Emperor’s life, as well as those of Generals Miramon and Mejia. The Empress Carlota has never admitted that her husband was dead, and she has been in seclusion near Trieste since that time. So, in a way, they were avenging her as well. Moreau got away out of Mexico and carried himself and the memory of his abhorrent crime to some land beyond the seas. But danger was dogging his footsteps. The survivors knew that any vengeance would have to come from outside the pale of the law. I suspect that the mercenaries who carried out the ambush were eliminated first. It was reading the news of the Creole’s death that likely drove Colonel Moreau to hide his identity under that of the investor Dumas. And yet he was drawn out of hiding by his own unslacked greed. Although Moreau had received the lion’s share of the magnificent jewels stolen from Harrier’s tent, he had to share at least part of the spoils with the mercenaries that had actually carried out the despicable deed. And Moreau lost heavily dabbling in stocks. He was ready to do anything on earth to regain his ill-gotten fortune. And so a great plan was concocted to lure him to Bermuda, to the very hotel run by the widow of one of the ambushed men, with the pretense of hunting for treasure. And there the sword of justice fell upon him.”
Constable Dunkley interjected. “But Doctor, we have handwriting samples from every man in this room. I’ve examined them to the minutest detail. I am confident that none of them wrote the note that we found in Dumas’ room.”
I nodded grimly. “I agree, Constable. None of the guests wrote that note. But we do not have a handwriting sample from every man in this room, do we, Mr. Boyle?” I turned to the innkeeper’s assistant, my eyebrows raised.
The livid flush that rose on his cheeks was a sufficient answer. His gaze darted around the room, before settling upon the constable. “Harry, you know that I never properly learned my letters. How could I have written that?”
The constable look puzzled. “The note we found was crudely written,” I agreed, continuing “much like something written by a man just learning, but whose words were being dictated by someone far more trained. Someone who masterminded this entire revenge. Someone like an avocat, Monsieur Dubois.”
Dubois’ only response was a haughty silence.
“But Doctor, what is your proof?” asked the constable, his eyebrows drawn low in intense thought.
“I freely admit that I have little proof. However, according to this wire that I just received from Dr. Penny,” I held up the telegram, “it is an undisputed fact that the knife possessed by Colonel Moreau, or Monsieur Dumas if you will, carries the symbol of the Légion étrangère.”
“He could have bought that somewhere,” protested Dr. Nemcek, “it is not proof that the murdered man once belonged in the ranks of the illustrious French Foreign Legion!”
“True enough, and yet it explains much. Dumas believed that you were on his track and he was always on his guard against you. He feared that he was at the center of a monstrous conspiracy, and he was correct! Dumas always had the look of a man who had spent too long a residence in the tropics. His jade pipe stem must have hailed from Central America. And it explains why there is no German in this hotel, for years of rising tension that eventually led to the unhappy Franco-Prussian War have made it impossible for a German to be allowed to join the Legion. And it explains why Monsieur Dubois wished to be thought of as a Frenchman, when in fact, he is a Belgian. For he did not wish to draw attention to Moreau’s nationality, which might have made us consider exactly where a Frenchman would interact with such an assorted crew.”
As Constable Dunkley and the guests pondered this, a tremulous voice broke through the silence. “There are many such places, Doctor,” said the Marquesa, “where the French interact with other nationalities. Their tentacles are far-reaching. I do not see why you have to invent such a preposterous tale.”
“I apologize if I have pained you, Marquesa. I intended no dishonor to your husband. And yet, you yourself failed to deny that he fell in battle. I know your sadness must be profound, but I suspect that your fury is even greater. A woman of Spanish blood does not lightly condone such a treacherous act. When passions flagged, when new careers developed and distractions arose, who pressed the men to carry on for the final years of the last thirteen? I believe that you were not being completely honest with us, Marquesa, when you told us your reason for your maid’s dismissal. You are not going to Florida, are you? Bermuda is equally on the route to Mexico, I think.”
Her eyes flashed at me, and her head was raised proudly. Then it sank to her chest. “You know my fate as well as I, Doctor. I have only a little time left and I would not have stranded Beryl in the New World. But I will lie with my Diego again very soon.” Her chest sobbed.
Lucy went to her aid with a handkerchief and glare of anger for me, all thought of her natural reserve apparently lost in her over-powering excitement and concern for the Marquesa. But the Marquesa stiffened and thrust out a defiant chin before waving her away gently. Nonetheless, Lucy turned to the constable heatedly. “Constable, you have only the Doctor’s words to support this farcical tale. But have you considered the possibility that he may not be entirely well? He has just been through a horrific battle and was terribly wou
nded. Perhaps that is why he sees enemy soldiers everywhere, and envisions conflicts that never occurred? He has also been voraciously reading mystery novels. Perhaps that is why he perceives conspiracies where none exists? He has even imagined that a Persian slipper has been appearing and disappearing from his room!”
I was stunned by this accusation against my competence, especially arising from one that I held in such high esteem. For an instant I could have sworn that the faintest shadow of a smile flickered over her lips. Dunkley turned to me with a shadow of doubt having risen in his eyes. But despite my bitterness I pressed on. “There is one other little item, but it is a suggestive one. In England, a jury is composed of twelve men. Tell me, Monsieur Dubois, do you happen to know the composition of the tribunal for a court-martial in the French Foreign Legion?”
Dubois nodded slowly, as if pondering whether he would be found out in the event of him uttering a falsehood. “I believe that a military tribunal in the French Foreign Legion is presided over by a Judge Advocate, with as few as three and as many as seven officers who pass final judgment.”
“If I count correctly, excluding myself, there are nine guests remaining in this hotel. The addition of Mrs. Foster makes ten. One man must have served as the Judge Advocate. Perhaps the highest ranking soldier left alive from the company? But that man could still play a role, such as drinking heavily from a drugged bottle of comet vintage Sauternes in order to allay the nervous victim’s fears? And the remaining nine would have to draw lots to determine which of the seven were allowed to pass judgment. Constable, how many shards of sea glass did you find?”
“Nine.”
“That’s correct. Seven that were green and two that were blue. The perfect tools with which to draw lots. And how many bullet holes did we find in the dead man?”
“Seven,” said the constable, his voice a barely audible croak.
“You wondered, Constable, why the gun was reloaded and another bullet fired? There is your answer. You see, Constable, there is no single murderer. That was their coup de maître, their masterstroke. Everyone in this hotel had a hand in his death.”
Sims turned to Dunkley and trained the full force of his powerful gaze upon the befuddled man. “Constable, enough of this rigamarole! I believe that the time has come to decide which tale provides the most likely explanation for the murder of Monsieur Dumas: your splendid, straightforward theory of a vicious fall-out between desperate pirates, or the Doctor’s convoluted fairy-tale of revenge across the years? The magnificent fair-play of the British criminal law is in your hands.”
Dunkley looked plagued with irresolution. The ripple of emotions across his face was clear, and his response was slow in coming. “The Justice of the Peace in Hamilton is not noted for the leniency of his sentences from the bench.” He turned to me pleadingly. “You must help me decide, Doctor. I have never met a man who was more eminently suited to represent a British Jury than you. Does everyone agree?”
I looked about the room. My eyes caught the gaze of each of the guests, who I had come to know so well over the last few days. But I mainly wished to look into the eyes of Lucy, to try to gauge what thoughts were foremost in her mind.
Lucy was the first to speak. “The Doctor is a gentleman to whose mercy I should be entirely willing to trust,” said she with great solemnity.
I gazed at her, befuddled. Was she simply trying to manipulate me? I could not be certain the veracity of her feelings. And then I realized that her prior outburst, rather than an attack upon my character, was actually an attempt to provide me with an escape from the predicament of being correct. Terribly correct. But Sims must have taken my hesitation for an internal debate about what course of action. “You realize, Doctor, that without the stone, you cannot prove it,” said the former Sergent-Chef.
I took a deep breath and found my equanimity. I looked at him and nodded. “What does the law of England care for blood shed many years ago in far off Mexico, or for the great treasure which this man has allegedly stolen? They are like crimes committed on some other planet, and any sequelae that have rippled out from the first offense are equally inconsequential. It is not our responsibility to police a justifiable private revenge. Clearly the first solution, the Constable’s solution, is the correct one. Mine was nothing but the phantasm of an overwrought imagination.”
With that pronouncement, Lucy smiled broadly and the room once again broke into a happy buzzing of conversation. Tears sprang to her eyes and she nodded at me before turning away. I watched her for a moment, until the constable clapped his hand upon my shoulder.
“Tell me, Doctor,” he said warmly. “Do you really believe that? Are we commuting a felony?”
I thought about this for a moment. “It’s not about what I believe, Constable. It’s not even about what I could prove, which is very little. It’s about what is right. The sword of justice has fallen, albeit far from the scene of the original crime and long after the loot has been dispersed. But fallen it has, and no one would doubt that its aim was true. There was always only one criminal in this hotel, and he is dead. All that it remains is men - and women - who have lost someone dear to them. But is that not every man’s story? We are not so different from them. In the same situation, we may have trod a similar path.”
Dunkley nodded slowly. “Thank you, Doctor, for all of your assistance.”
“But I’ve done nothing!” I protested.
“That’s not true, Doctor. You have told a wonderful story, despite all its evil memories. And there is great power in stories. You have a gift, Doctor, which I would encourage you to develop. Even if this tale can never leave this room, everyone who heard it knows the truth. I will call upon you tomorrow.”
He shook my hand, and moved over to the table where the assembled clues lay. He started to put them back into his satchel, one by one. Just then, the little negress serving girl entered and tugged upon my sleeve to obtain my attention. She wordlessly handed me a wire. Tearing the envelope open, I found that Thurston had been speedy in carrying out my inquiry. I now understood everything. I was about to confront Lucy when my attention was suddenly drawn to the one object upon the table that was out of place. The one object that should never have been in the murdered man’s room. I began to see dimly the answer to another mystery. “Constable!” I called out. The company quieted and turned as one to try to ascertain the meaning for my sudden excitement. “I have one last request.”
Dunkley shrugged. “Name it, Doctor.”
“The clues in the case,” I motioned to the table, “do you have any use for them?”
Dunkley appeared to ponder this. “We have been unable to locate either a will or any relatives of the deceased, so there is no clear inheritor of the man’s property. However, I doubt that the magistrate would look kindly if I gave you his silver watch,” said he, dryly.
“What about the Calvados bottle?” said I, with as much nonchalance as I could muster.
Dunkley looked at me shrewdly, perhaps wondering if I planned to drink the entire bottle myself. He finally shrugged. “I can’t imagine that this inconsequential bottle will be much missed. Take it, Doctor.”
“Thank you, Constable,” said I, simply. I waited for him to finish packing his satchel and, with a final glance at the crowd and a shake of his head, he finally departed the hotel. Once the front door had closed behind him, I turned back to the assembled crowd, who were again watching me warily.
“It seems to me that the murdered man, whatever be his name, was not completely bereft of his ill-gotten fortune, for he was flush with both cash as well as some expensive personal items.” I turned to the naturalist. “Mr. Warburton, do you think that he had any remaining jewels?”
The Englishman studied me for a moment. “If he did, I have no doubt that they are secreted away in a series of banks so that no single man should ever know exactly what he has.”
“Like Cox and Company?” I interjected.
He smiled and shrugged. “Perhaps. Or possibly
Holder & Stevenson of Threadneedle Street? There are many fine banks in London. Or, since he was French, perhaps the Bank of France or the Credit Lyonnais? He was in Prussia once, so perhaps the Deutsche Bank? It little matters. If he died without a legal heir, they may lay there forever, gathering dust. No one in this room is likely to ever lay eyes upon anything. Which was never the point.”
“And the Empress Emerald? Would he have entrusted that to any bank? Banks can be robbed.”
Warburton licked his lips. “I thought we agreed that the Emerald was a figment of your imagination. You surely did not find it in the room of Mor… I mean, Dumas.”
My lips curled up at his slip. “I would ask that you humor me, sir.” I turned to the Italian. “I ask you, Signore Aicardi. You are an artist. If you had a great treasure to hide, where would you do so?”
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