The Isle of Devils

by Craig Janacek

  Aicardi narrowed his eyes and peered at me. “The best place to hide something is in plain sight, but intermixed with other items of great similarity.”

  “Exactly! And thus, I ask you, Mr. Sims: if the man we knew as Dumas did not drink fortified spirits, as you and I learned that evening that he drank with us, then why did he have a bottle of Calvados in his room?”

  Sims frowned. But before he could reply, I did something rash. To his probable astonishment, I suddenly tossed the bottle of Calvados towards him. But I deliberately underthrew it. I knew with his injured knee that Sims stood little chance of ever catching it, and though he instinctually lunged for it, the bottle instead shattered upon the ground into a hundred pieces of green glass. Amber liquid splashed everywhere, wetting the shoes of the nearest men.

  “Have you gone mad, mate?” Senhor Cordeiro roared. “That’s a damn fine bottle to waste like that!”

  But I paid him no need. Instead I bent down to where the remnant of the base lay. “I think you might find this perhaps a tad rarer than the Calvados, Senhor.” I held up the bottom of the bottle, which was now obviously oddly shaped. For there was no punt dimpling upwards. Instead, I popped a brilliantly scintillating round green stone free from the encasing glass. It was similar to a golf ball in size, and of such a purity and radiance that it twinkled like the aurora borealis in the hollow of my hand.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said I, “I present to you the legendary Empress Emerald.” The wonder on their faces told me that they truly did not know that it was hidden under their noses the entire time. They had done the deed solely for the sake of revenge, not for material gain. Lucy’s eyes in particular were shining, almost to the point of tears, and her cheeks were tinged with color. “Of course, its existence cannot be made known to Constable Dunkley, for it would irrevocably alter his decision. But what is to be done with it? Maximilian is long in his grave, and no amount of emerald-derived funds will bring him back. Carlota is irretrievably stricken with brain-fever. It will do her little good. Perhaps it should now belong to the heir of the man who gave his life trying to protect it?” I walked over to Lucy and held it out to her. “Perhaps it should belong to Lucy Harrier?”

  She gasped and her hand rose to her lips. Gazing intently at me, her eyes never leaving mine, she reached out and took the Emerald from my hand. “How did you know?”

  “When Mr. Boyle was unable to resist the coercion of my brother and gave me a room at the hotel, against the better judgment of Mrs. Foster, your company was suddenly short a room. That explains why Monsieur Dubois was so upset. He did not wish to stain your honor, but there was no other way to keep you all under one roof. And so, you quickly had new papers made with your false name. I believe that there is a printing press here in St. George’s? I imagine that is where you accidently acquired the violet ink spot that blemished your glove on the day when we first conversed in the garden. A wire to the registry office in Hamilton where you disembarked merely confirmed my suspicion of your true last name.”

  Her eyes finally broke from mine and dropped to her palm, the famous Émeraude coruscating in the lamplight. “And what should I do with this, Doctor?”

  I shrugged as carelessly as I could manage. “That is up to you. You have your whole life before you. There is no one left in need of punishment. It is a fait accompli. Your father can finally rest,” I threw a meaningful glance over at Mr. Sims. “The world is your oyster.”

  She shook her head. “It is not a pearl, Doctor. Nor is it that simple. I’ve not known anything else.”

  “It is never too late to reinvent yourself.”

  She nodded slowly, but her eyes never rose again to meet mine.

  §

  I made desultory conversation for a few moments with the other guests until I eventually decided that it would be best if I repaired to my room and allowed them to reflect upon the culmination of their combined adventure. Mr. Boyle was good enough to deliver my supper to my room upon a tray, along with a message from my brother that a ship was leaving tomorrow afternoon for England if I was ready to depart. After a moment’s consideration I asked Boyle to reply in the affirmative. I ate in a reflective silence, hardly tasting what I put into my mouth.

  When I put out the light, I soon found that I could not sleep. After struggling against it for what seemed like several hours, I felt that it was quite hopeless. So I rose and looked out of the window into the garden below. The night was fine and clear. The stars shone cold and bright above us, while the moon bathed the whole scene in a soft, uncertain light. Broad bars of golden light from the lower windows stretched out interrupting the darkness, as if to provide a glimmer of hope for the ambiguous future. I finally turned away and lit the candle. I glanced at my watch and was surprised to find it was not even one o’clock in the morning. I pulled on my flannel dressing gown, with the intention of continuing Dickens’ Drood. The book, however, had been left in the billiard room. I strode to the door and flung it open. What I found there produced what I can only assume was an ever-growing astonishment upon my face. For standing outside my door, her hand raised as if she were about to knock, was Ms. Lucy Harrier, clad only in a sheer chiffon white nightgown, barely obscuring the glories that lay beneath.

  Her face lit up with a brilliant smile. “Ah, Doctor, I am so happy that you are awake. I fear that I could not sleep. We owe you a thousand apologies for our myriad of deceptions, and I hope that you will absolve me. We have used you most cruelly.”

  “Not at all,” said I, futilely crossing my arms over my chest, for it was quite beyond my power to resist the light shining from her brilliant green eyes.

  She reached out and laid her hand upon one of my arms. Her touch sent an electric shock up to the very hairs upon my head. “Doctor, please. It is true. We even placed the slipper in your room for you to find, and then stole it again in order to induce the constable to doubt your veracity. We worried that you were drawing too close to the truth.” She stepped closer to me, crossing the threshold of my room.

  “Ah,” I stammered.

  Perhaps seeing the look of incredulity upon my face, she pressed on. “Calm yourself, Doctor. You know your Shakespeare. The tempest has passed. There is no more need for us to take ‘strange-bedfellows.’ The sea is calm around this little isle now. And my bounty is as boundless as the sea…” Her whole face shone with an inward light.

  “Romeo ends tragically, Ms. Harrier,” I managed to say, shaking my head.

  “Does it have to? Can Shakespeare not be wrong, from time to time? No more moments should be lost. Now that we no longer have to maintain the illusion that Hector and I are a couple, I am free to sleep where I wish.” She closed the door behind her, and stepped forward again until there was absolutely nothing between us. A sudden floor of joy, amazement, and incredulity utterly submerged my mind. The rest of the night was spent in a realm where words did not matter.

  §

  EPILOGUE

  THE ORONTES

  And so concludes my sojourn upon the Isle of Devils. I shall be brief, and yet exact, in the little which remains for me to tell. A duty devolves upon me to omit no detail and not retain in my hands any factors in the mystery, so that some day when we are all beyond the reach of human law, the truth may be known.

  When I awoke alone the following morn, it was with a curiously empty feeling, as if I was missing some crucial element from my life, akin I thought to the sensation that wounded soldiers occasionally report after the battlefield loss of a limb. I dressed slowly in my finest uniform. I knew that I simply had to embark upon a new boat, but it felt as if I had a funeral to attend. Packing my valise, I gazed about the room, suspecting that I was forgetting something. But there was nothing there, excepting only the specters of the past.

  I made my way along the twisting coconut-matted hall and down the creaking staircase one last time. At the bottom of the stairs, in the hotel’s entryway, I found Constable Dunkley awaiting me.

  “Good morning, Doctor,
” said he, warmly.

  “And to you, Constable.”

  “Please call me Harry, my friend. I am not on duty this morning. I have been given a brief leave as a recompense for the successful conclusion of the Globe Hotel Case.”

  A half-smile touched my face. “I congratulate you, Harry.”

  “I wanted to thank you personally for the invaluable assistance that you provided on the case of Mr. Dumas.” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “Although the explanation that you provided ultimately proved to be no more than a fantastic product of your imagination, I think that the other solution we arrived at is more than satisfactory. The brutes that shot Dumas must have fled Bermuda long ago in a private boat. The villains got clean away and will likely never be caught. I am afraid that we must consider the case closed.”

  I nodded in acceptance of this explanation. “Justice has been done here. I am as certain of that as I am of the rise of tomorrow’s sun. There never was an Etienne Moreau.”

  He shrugged and wryly grinned at me. “Not on this island. The dead man’s papers state his name quite clearly, and I’ve not heard any convincing proof to the contrary. By the way, Doctor, since the case is closed, all of the evidence pertaining to it must be destroyed. As you are about to depart from us, would you be so kind as to dispose of this in the deepest trenches of the Atlantic?” He reached into his ever-present wide-awake and pulled out the jack-knife, with its no longer mysterious initials ‘L.E.’ and the well-worn flaming ring symbol.

  I took the knife from him and hefted it in my palm. “It’s a well-made blade, Harry. It would be a shame to discard it simply because of the crimes of its previous owner.”

  “It would be an equal shame if that knife remained upon the island and stirred up questions that are best left buried,” said he, with raised eyebrows and a significant look.

  “I understand,” I smiled at him. “No one will ever know the origin or the fate of this blade.” I paused for a moment and slipped it into my valise.

  “Thank you, Harry,” I said, holding out my hand.

  He shook it warmly. “No, thank you, Doctor. Now, if you would be so kind as to depart through the side entrance, I believe that there are a few others that might like a word with you.” He directed me into the dining room.

  There, to my vast surprise, I found the guests of the Globe Hotel assembled en bloc, awaiting me. The first was the long-widowed Mrs. Elizabeth Foster, with Graham Boyle standing loyally by her side.

  “Safe travels, Doctor,” said the proprietress kindly. “May you next repose be more welcoming and restful than this one proved to be when you descended upon me unawares six days ago.”

  I returned her smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Foster. I assure you that there are no hard feelings. I completely understand. And Mr. Boyle,” I said, turning to the sturdy man, “are congratulations in order?” I looked back at Mrs. Foster significantly.

  He glanced down at her and smiled. “I believe that they are, Doctor. I assure you that when you receive your invitation, it will be written out by a better hand than mine.”

  “I wish I could attend, sir,” I replied, with sincere disappointment in my voice. “But I regretfully suspect that it may be a few years before I make my way back to Bermuda.”

  “If you do, sir, I guarantee that the Walker Room will always be ready for you.”

  “Yes, I think that I would prefer that to the one next door.”

  “It may be a while before we are able to let that one out again,” Mrs. Foster interjected. “Though there are always some with macabre tendencies who seek out such rooms, hoping to commune better with the departed.” She shook her head, as if she could not fathom such a thing.

  I made my final leave-taking with the happy pair and moved to the next guest. The Marquesa Garcia-Ramirez sat majestically in her chair, still appearing to dominate the room from the force of her will alone, despite her humble position.

  “Buen viaje, Marquesa,” I said with a formal bow. “May the airs of Mexico agree with you.”

  A sardonic grin cracked her pale face. “You know as well as I, Doctor, that I am not long for this world. We shall not meet again on this side of the veil. But I am content. My husband is avenged and I will be with him soon. My only regret is that he never got a chance to meet you, Doctor. He always appreciated an honorable man.”

  I silently nodded my gratitude at this undue praise and moved on to the next guest, Mr. Warburton. He held out his hand, which I took. “Thank you, Doctor. The Marquesa is correct. There are many clever physicians and there are many compassionate physicians. But it is a rarity to find one that is both. I would hope that someday you might find it acceptable to visit me at my father’s estate. There have been many eminent Harley Street specialists, even heads of prestigious medical schools, who have departed our house in a huff, unsuccessful at solving the colonel’s problem. But I think that you of all people might be the one to help.”

  I nodded my head. “I will think on it, sir.” I moved on to the next guest, Doctor Nemcek.

  He spoke first. “As one medical man to another, I know the agony of a long voyage without something to stimulate the mind. Do you have something to read on the boat, Doctor?”

  I shook my head. “No, I have left the copy of Dickens with Mrs. Foster. I think I have had enough of mysteries and detectives for the time being.”

  “Well then, let me give you a parting gift,” said he, holding out a small package wrapped in a common brown paper and tied with a string.

  My indignation reared up. “I cannot accept…”

  “Hush, Doctor. This is no bribe. It is merely something by which to remember us.”

  I took the package from him and unwrapped it. Inside I found a small book. It was a copy of Henri Murger’s Vie de Boheme.

  I looked up in surprise, only to find him smiling at me. “I am confident that this may further your education on the different types of Bohemians.”

  I nodded my acceptance. “Thank you, sir. I promise you that I will read it closely.”

  Senhor Cordeiro smiled at me as I approached him. “Farewell, mate,” said the Portuguese wine-merchant, stretching out his hand.

  I took it and replied, “I never imagined what troubles would follow when we picked you up at that dock in Hamilton, Senhor Cordeiro.”

  He nodded with a mock contriteness. “You never know what fate has in store for you, Doctor. Sometimes you must trust yourself to its winds and hope that it lands you in a safe harbor. Often times, I find that things work out for the best. Do you not agree?”

  I reflected upon this. “Yes, I suppose that I do. I have certainly learned a great deal upon these isles. Though I doubt that I will have much use for my new-found investigative skills after my return to England.”

  “I certainly hope not, Doctor!” he laughed. “I will try to visit you some day, and I expect to find a man of your great talents securely ensconced in a lucrative medical practice in the finest district in London. If I do come, I assure you that I will bring with me my finest bottle of vinho da roda Madeira, since you never did get a chance to taste it.”

  “I trust that this time, should I partake, I shall actually awaken the following morn?”

  “You may count upon that, Doctor,” said he, with a final smile and nod.

  I moved on to Mr. Delopolous. The short but powerful man gave me a quick bow. “Afaristo, Doctor. You are a good man. I am sorry about lying to you about my lumbago.”

  “And a few other things, I think?” said I, raising one eyebrow.

  “Perhaps, though I tried to stay as close to the truth as possible, for I have never enjoyed deceiving those that I respect. And you have that, Doctor.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I replied, as he wrung me by the hand, touched by the man’s simple words.

  The next guest in the line was Mr. Bey. The little engineer smiled at me. “My friend,” he said. “May I presume to give you a final memento of your time in the Globe Hotel?” He handed me a square
black morocco case, which I reluctantly took. When I lifted off the lid, inside I found the missing Persian slipper. “It was once found amongst your items, was it not? So I thought that perhaps it should be yours again?” he concluded.

  A half-smile curled up the right side of my mouth. “I’m not certain what use I will find for a single Persian slipper.”

  He shook his head. “You never know, Doctor, you never know.”

  I slipped this too into my valise. Turning, I found that the next guest was Signore Aicardi. He pressed my hand in his strong, warm grasp. “Ciao, Dottore. It has been a pleasure meeting you.”

  “And you as well, sir,” I replied. “I hope to see your works exhibited in the galleries of London someday soon.”

  “Ah,” he waved his hand airily, “perhaps, Dottore, perhaps, though an artist creates because there is something inside of him that needs to be set free. Whether the world appreciates it or not is beside the point. Art exists solely to ease the yearning of the artist. I will give you an example from the realm of literature, by the greatest poet of my homeland. Since you gleaned so much knowledge from one little line of Dante’s Inferno, let me leave you with the last line that he ever wrote: ‘Ma già volgeva il mio disio e ‘l velle, sì come rota ch’igualmente è mossa, l‘amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle.’”