The Sun Goes Down

by James Lear

  “But if I examine him, he can tell me all the juicy details, and I’m under no obligation to report them to anyone.”

  “That’s the general idea. Also—well, forgive me, Mitch, but I wouldn’t know the right questions to ask in a case like this. About their involvement.”

  “Honestly, Frank, we’re not so different from the rest of humanity. We fall in love, we fuck, we fall out of love, we cheat. We have the same joys and sorrows as the rest of you. As for the mechanics of it—well, you’re a doctor. You know what goes where, and what it does when it gets there.”

  “You’re right. I’ll be honest with you, Mitch. I’m embarrassed. Every time Alf Lutterall comes to see me, we sit there stammering like a couple of idiots. I’m a bloody awful doctor. I blame my Scottish upbringing. Presbyterian. We don’t talk about these things.”

  “We’ll have to work on that, Dr. Southern. In the meantime, you want me to see your patient?”

  “As soon as possible. I’m seriously worried about him. He’s developing what looks very much like a persecution mania.”

  “What are the symptoms?”

  “He’s convinced himself that Ned Porter was murdered.”

  Murdered! The word I’d been waiting, hoping to hear ever since I stepped off the ferry. Here it was at last, my very own Mediterranean murder mystery! I realized I was smiling, and Frank Southern was giving me a very strange look. I composed my features and tried to look appropriately concerned. “Do you think there’s any substance to his suspicions?”

  “I don’t know. He seems otherwise sane.”

  “Apart from his sexual inversion.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth, Mitch. I am not one of those doctors who believes that your kind of affections are a form of mental illness.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it.”

  “As far as I can see, Alf Lutterall is suffering from shock and depression. He may be having some kind of breakdown, and people in that condition make up all sorts of stories to explain what’s happening to them. This whole murder obsession may be a fantasy, in which case he is ill enough to be sent home and possibly discharged on grounds of unfitness. But there may be another explanation.”

  “You mean Ned Porter might really have been murdered?”

  “I can’t discount the possibility.”

  “So you need someone with experience in solving murders who’s not too embarrassed to ask questions about irregular sexual activities, is that it?”

  “That’s it,” said Frank. “And who else could I possibly call on?”

  “Mitch Mitchell at your service,” I said as I tucked into a large, juicy sausage. All trace of a hangover had disappeared, perhaps due to food and coffee but also the excitement of a new case. Because that was how I was already treating the death of Ned Porter, and the suspicions of poor Alf Lutterall—a murder case that only Mitch Mitchell dare solve. I had my method: no stone unturned, no cock unsucked in the quest for truth. I even had my local sidekick lined up in the pleasing shape of Joseph Vella. All I needed now was information.

  “Tell me about Ned Porter’s death.”

  “He jumped off a cliff, just across the bay from your hotel. Straight down to the rocks below. He’s not the first person to do it, and I don’t suppose he’ll be the last.”

  “Aside from what Alf Lutterall thinks, is there any suspicion of foul play?”

  “None. He left a note.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “Not personally, but the inquest was satisfied.”

  “What did it say?”

  “I have no idea. Goodbye cruel world, I suppose.”

  “Do you think it still exists?”

  “The military police would have it. It was addressed to his commanding officer.”

  “And you said the dead man was being blackmailed.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Did he tell you?”

  “No. I barely knew him. I did his medical when he arrived. I used to see him around the place. That was it.”

  “Who told you he was being blackmailed, then?”

  Southern scratched his chin again; it made a crackling noise that went straight to my balls. “Do you know, I can’t remember.”

  “Alf Lutterall?”

  “No. He knew nothing about it.”

  “Well?”

  “It must have come up at the inquest. I mean, everyone seemed to know that it was happening, but now that you ask, I can’t remember where that information originated.”

  “Perhaps evidence was found in Porter’s room?”

  “It’s possible, but it seems unlikely. The younger men are impulsive, reckless even, but they’re not stupid.”

  “And if it exists, the police would have it.”

  “Yes.” Our eyes met; we were both thinking the same thing. How trustworthy are the military police?

  “Tell me, Frank. Did Ned Porter strike you as the suicidal type?”

  “No. He was a cheerful enough bloke. A bit of a joker. But of course you never know.”

  “Was there any change in his behavior before his death?”

  “I didn’t notice anything, but as I said, I didn’t know him that well. Nobody else mentioned anything.”

  “What does Alf say?”

  “He is adamant that Ned was as happy as a lark. He had no reason to kill himself. He’s suggested that he had a lot to live for, without going so far as to tell me exactly what.”

  “They were in love.”

  Frank shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “And do you doubt Alf’s word? He seems to be the only person so far who actually knew Ned Porter.”

  “I have no reason to doubt him.”

  “You just think as a general rule that queers are liars and lunatics who may kill themselves at any moment.”

  “I think nothing of the sort.”

  “Very well. In that case, I prefer to believe Alf Lutterall. Happy young men don’t just kill themselves, especially when they’re in love.”

  “You think he was murdered?”

  “It seems as good a theory as any.”

  “But who on earth would want to kill Ned Porter? He didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

  “By your own account, Frank, you hardly knew him. And in my experience of murder, it always looks implausible at first glance.” I thought back over the bodies I’d encountered—a mysterious house guest falling out of a cupboard, a passenger in a train compartment, a man in a locked bathroom. All of them seemed the least likely people in the world to be murdered. Popular, normal, inoffensive, a threat to nobody. Nice, regular guys, just like Ned Porter. And yet in each and every case there was a hidden story, a tangled thread leading inexorably to murder.

  “I bow to your superior knowledge. And here.” He reached into his case and presented me with a white envelope. “A letter of bona fides. You’ll have to show this to Lutterall’s CO to prove you are the well-known nerve specialist from London.”

  “You’re taking a risk, aren’t you?”

  “I am. Because, you see, I rather think that Alf Lutterall may be right. I think something has been covered up. Something that I am in no position to uncover.”

  “Thank you.” I pocketed the letter. “And when will I see my patient?”

  “Tomorrow, if all goes well. I’ve got to get Major Telford to sign off on it. I’ll slip it in among a lot of other routine business and just hope the old bastard doesn’t notice. Fingers crossed, I’ll send someone to collect you.”

  And with that, he finished his breakfast, gave me a reassuring hug and went on to address the corns and hemorrhoids that fell within the scope of his official business.

  * * *

  By the time I got back to the Continental they were laying up for lunch in the dining room. Ralph, the ancient, lecherous porter, doubled as a waiter; Martin Dear supervised the bar; Stella, the sturdy cook and housekeeper, provided food with just a couple of village girls to assist. This left Tilly as hostess, a role to which
she was born. Attractive, effusive and with an obvious love of gossip, she was the perfect person with whom to commence my investigations. If there was anything to know on the island, she’d know it.

  “Dr. Mitchell!”

  “Mitch, please. I’m on holiday.”

  “Very well then, Mitch. Did you have a pleasant morning? I hear you went over to Mgarr.” There, you see—she knew everything.

  “I had breakfast with my old friend.”

  “Doctor Frank?”

  “How on earth could you know that?”

  “Stella’s sister-in-law runs the cafe where you had breakfast. Her son delivers some of our fruit and veg. It’s better than a local newspaper.”

  “You know Frank Southern?”

  “Who doesn’t? All the women on the island think he’s a dream-boat. And he’s so tantalizingly unmarried.” She gave me a searching look, hoping perhaps for some explanation of Frank’s mysterious celibacy.

  “I’ll tell him that next time we meet.”

  “Oh, don’t.” She put her hands to her cheeks; it was hard to tell, under all that paint, whether she was really blushing. “I’m sure he has girlfriends all over the place. Now, will you be joining us for lunch?”

  After Melissa’s mighty breakfast I had no desire to eat ever again; in fact, I was ready for a siesta. But I wanted company and conversation. “Something very light, if that’s possible, in an hour or so.”

  “An omelette and a salad?”

  I’d already eaten two eggs and feared constipation, but I assented. “I had a very nice walk last night,” I said, unwilling to let her get away. “Up on the cliff path. It’s beautiful.”

  “Oh, yes. So they tell me. Personally, I’m terrified of the cliffs. I can’t bear heights. I go quite swimmy. What’s it called?”

  “Vertigo. And you don’t like the sea either.”

  “Madness, isn’t it? I suppose you doctors would have a special name for it, and might lock me up in the booby hatch.”

  I was about to say I wasn’t that sort of doctor but remembered just in time that Frank was representing me as a nerve specialist. “Don’t worry, Tilly. You seem sane enough to me. And I can’t blame you for being frightened of the cliffs. They’re dangerous.”

  “Terribly dangerous. They ought to fence them off or something. It’s quite criminal how they let people wander up there.” She shook her head.

  “Have there been accidents?”

  Tilly lowered her voice. “I don’t know about accidents exactly. But one poor chap fell to his death. Before our time, thank God. The very thought of it makes me shudder.” She matched the action to the words. “Suicide, they said.”

  “How awful.”

  “Isn’t it? A soldier from the garrison at Valetta. Can you imagine?” She sighed and wiped her eyes. “Sorry. I always get upset when I think about it. How can anyone feel so desperate? So alone?” She blew her nose on a tiny handkerchief. “Forgive me. I’m just glad it didn’t happen when we were here. Things like that make me go to pieces.”

  “Death?”

  “Yes. I’m not very good at the serious side of life.”

  “Perfectly natural. It’s only doctors like me who are hardened to it.”

  “Poor Doctor Frank had to deal with it, of course. I expect he mentioned it to you.”

  “He mentioned it, yes.”

  “I wonder—do the authorities have any idea what happened? I mean, there was a lot of talk, but nobody ever got to the bottom of it. That poor boy.” She dabbed her eyes again.

  “I have no idea, I’m afraid. What have you heard, Tilly?”

  “Oh, there was some nasty gossip around the village. I just can’t stand those narrow-minded old crones—it’s none of their business! Live and let live, that’s my motto. It’s always been the philosophy of the Continental Hotel, and it’s something we’re proud to continue.”

  “You haven’t been here long, have you?”

  “Frankly, no. It’s only our second season. I’m well aware that we’re still on probation. There are plenty of people who would love to see us fail. It’s always like that when someone new comes along, isn’t it? People can be very uncharitable. But we’ll show them. Martin and I can run a hotel just as well as anyone else, I suppose.”

  “Was it something you did back home?”

  “Good Lord, no. But we always used to dream about it. I suppose we thought it was something we’d do when we retired. We’d find a nice little nook somewhere and open up a guest house. Then we came into some money, and we thought—well, why not?”

  Just like me—suddenly, unexpectedly rich. I kept that fact to myself. “And why here on Gozo? Was it somewhere you knew?”

  “Never set foot on the place. It was a leap in the dark. But the people who owned it before, the Andersons, were friends of my parents. Sort of like an aunt and uncle to me, although we weren’t related at all. In fact, I hardly saw them after they moved out here, years and years ago. Then suddenly they announced they were selling, and they were desperate for a buyer. We just thought, why not? Quite the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done. But we had the money, and there was no particular reason for us to stay put in cold, gray England. It was the best decision I ever made.” She corrected herself. “We ever made. Martin and I. We’re a good team, I think, don’t you?” She nodded towards her handsome husband, mixing more of his dangerous cocktails at the bar. “He’s as happy as a little boy on a playground. Look at him, the darling.”

  I was more than happy to look. Martin Dear, with his matinee idol looks and floppy hair, was easy on the eye.

  “Oh, and here comes the dear Captain.” I recognized the red-faced, white-haired old boy from the harborside bar last night. “He’s an absolute poppet. Lives up there on the cliff.”

  “The house at the top of the path?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I saw it last night.”

  “He drops in here now and then for a drink and a bit of company. And really, he’s absolutely harmless. You know, of course, they say that he had to leave England, but I don’t like that kind of talk. What he chooses to do in his private life is nobody’s business but his own, and as far as I’m concerned if he’s not hurting anyone he’s just as good as the rest of us. I hope he understands that his type will always be welcome at the Continental, just as before.”

  Was she trying to tell me something? She knew everything about my morning’s movements already; perhaps she’d learned what I was up to with Joseph the previous evening. Joseph told his friend, who told his sister, who worked in the kitchen with Stella, who mentioned to Tilly… Nothing would surprise me.

  “Not everyone shares my view, though,” said Tilly. “There’s an awful old woman in Victoria who likes to stick her nose into everyone’s business. One of those church types. Always wearing a black shawl, like a horrid crow. She writes letters—you know the sort of thing. Mend your ways or you will burn in hell. I won’t let her into the place, of course. Some of the locals think she’s a witch; you see them warding off the Evil Eye.” She made a horns sign with her index and little finger. “Superstitious nonsense, but I can’t say I blame them. She gives me the horrors. She’s even sent us a letter, can you imagine? No doubt telling us that the hotel is worse than Sodom and Gomorrah, calling me the Whore of Babylon and so on and so forth. Martin threw it on the fire before I could read it, bless him.”

  “Now now, darling,” said Martin, sauntering over from the bar with a drink in his hand. “Mitch isn’t interested in ancient history.”

  “Is that for me? Goody.” She took the cocktail, the glass dewy, the contents crystal clear, and had a large sip. “Oh, nectar. Or is it ambrosia? Whatever it is, it’s fit for the Gods. You know Odysseus stopped off here, don’t you, Mitch? For his little liaison with Calypso. If you’re interested, you can go and see her cave.”

  “Romantic twaddle,” said Martin. “People on this island will believe anything. It’s best to take it all with a very large pinch of
salt.”

  “Martin thinks I pay too much attention to local gossip,” said Tilly. “But I say it’s part of my job. What do you think, Mitch? Aren’t you just as fascinated as I am?”

  “If you’ve got any sense, you’ll ignore it like I do,” said Martin. “That letter went straight in the fire, and if we get any more they’ll go exactly the same way. I don’t know why you let these things upset you so much, Tilly. They’re nice enough in their way, these islanders, but they’re like children, and should be treated as such when they misbehave.”

  There spoke the true son of the British Empire. Martin Dear could have been running some African or Indian colony instead of shaking martinis in this little backwater. Perhaps his heroic consumption of his own drinks—I saw him knock back at least four cocktails last night with no obvious effect—had something to do with it.

  “Did you tell the police about the letters?”

  “Good God no,” said Martin. “Think I’m going to dignify that old bag’s insane rants by getting the police involved? That’s exactly what she wants. No, I shall continue to put her trash on the fire, and she can die in a madhouse and do us all a favor.”

  “Oh, Martin! Really! You shouldn’t say things like that.” Tilly put a finger to her husband’s lips. “I know you’re joking, but other people might not.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Unless I find her body at the foot of the cliff, I won’t think anything at all.”

  Martin barked with loud, rather artificial laughter. “Look, darling,” he said, “guests are coming down. Excuse us, Mitch. Duty calls.” And off they bustled around their business, smiling and kissing and showing people to their tables. Mr. and Mrs. Jessop appeared, dressed for a formal parish luncheon, sailing past the bar with eyes averted, as if the very sight of alcohol could endanger their immortal souls. Young Henry was nowhere to be seen—perhaps he was alone in his room. With this in mind, I slipped out of the lobby and up the stairs.

  From my balcony, I surveyed the scene. The morning mist had burned off, leaving the colors vivid and harsh: the gray of the rock, the yellow of the sandstone, the dark-blue of the sea with its millions upon millions of diamonds. Here and there were patches of green or the acidic colors of the flowers; the browns and burnt pinks of flesh. I scanned the scene for anything worthy of my attention but it was all families now. I turned back indoors, almost ready for a siesta. And then, as I glanced down, I noticed a flash of white—a towel thrown over the railings of the balcony below. And behind it, concealed from all eyes except those above, was Henry Jessop. And he was naked.