Free The Isle of Devils by Craig Janacek

the two lower floors, while a small north-facing opening provided some light to what I presumed was an attic. On all sides, the windows were potentially protected from the elements by stout black shutters, though these were currently thrown open. There was little exterior decoration, save a large sign over the first floor window that read simply: “GLOBE HOTEL.”
     
    I managed to climb down from the trap without assistance, while Robinson saw to my valise. I mounted the five steps that led to the small porch in front of the main door, which was propped open by a ruddy brick. I took my valise from Robinson, and handed him two pence for his troubles. He tipped his hat a t me and departed mutely. Crossing the threshold into the entryway, where a flight of dark cedar turned its way to the upper level, I faintly heard the rattle of wheels as the trap drove away. Straight ahead, another door led into what appeared to be a dining room with white-washed walls. As I looked about, a striking looking woman approached me with a pleasant smile of welcome. Small lines around her dark eyes pronounced her to be over forty, and though she was a little short and thick for symmetry, her strong, clear-cut face still registered a commanding presence. I suspected that she would have once been considered a great beauty. She was a brunette, with her hair wound up around her head with a green ribbon, and she wore a simple dress made from dove-colored cotton.
     
    “How can I help you, sir?” she asked.
     
    I realized that this must be the proprietress, Mrs. Foster. “I believe that you have a room for me? My name is Doctor…”
     
    As I began to speak she had pursed her lips and shook her head, and finally she interrupted me. “I am sorry, sir, but we are full up.”
     
    I stared at her, dumbfounded. This possibility had not crossed my mind. “I see,” I finally ventured. “Perhaps there is another inn?”
     
    She shook her head again, a touch of color rising to her wan cheeks. “Not in St. George’s. You will have to go back to Hamilton, I am afraid. But come, sir, I can offer you a whisky and soda before your journey.” She motioned towards the dining room.
     
    I finally recalled Henry’s words. “I am supposed to speak to a Mr. Boyle.”
     
    She frowned at this utterance, as if she could hardly find it credible. “Just a minute, sir. Kindly take a seat while you wait. I shall return in an instant.” She motioned to an unoccupied table, and then strode off through an adjacent billiard room and then into some sort of private quarters. I pulled up a seat, which gave me a chance to finally stretch out my aching leg after the cramped situations of first the sloop and then the trap. I took a moment to survey the architecture of the unfamiliar building. The dining room was about twenty feet in length and nearly that in width. Besides the door by which I had entered, there were several other exits. A set of wide-open double doors led into the billiard room. Single steps up led to two doors, one of which appeared to guard a ladies sitting room, while the other belonged to one of the guest rooms. Finally, another door to my right led out onto the street. The room was well lit by two large windows, and in the wintertime, a fire could have been made in the fireplace, though it was lying cold and bare on this fine day. The room was filled with tables and chairs, two larger ones set up to seat four, and six smaller ones set for two persons. However, only one other table was occupied at the moment by customers, which consisted of two men seated at the table furthest from the windows. When I entered they had seemed deep in conversation, but my presence seemed to stifle their discussion. I noted that they were an oddly matched pair.
     
    The first was above all else remarkable for his extraordinary height, which I could discern even while he was sitting. His head was topped with lion-like hair, but his sandy whiskers were flecked with the