by James Lear
“Not at all,” I said, trying to find the lineaments of youth and beauty in that jowly red face.
“As a young officer, in one’s uniform, the whole of life ahead of one, there were so many possibilities. And one took pleasure where one found it. No thought of the consequences. Ah, well, they were different times. The Eighties, the Nineties. Carefree. Careless, I suppose. Never thought it would come to this.”
I had a sudden vision of myself at the Captain’s age—forty, fifty years hence?—friendless, loveless, endlessly searching for reflections of what might have been in the young men whose companionship I paid for, exposing myself to danger and the slow poison of regret. Was that the future I was building for myself? Was I fucking my way to a miserable old age? Was it already too late? I thought of Vince, far away, and the one chance for happiness that I’d discarded like an old shoe.
“I suppose I must face the music. I have no one to blame but myself. But I wish you could have seen me then, Mitch. We didn’t all have cameras in those days, more’s the pity. One was drawn a couple of times. I have a charcoal sketch hidden away in the safe that was done by a Royal Academician. Picked me up in the Cafe Royal, you know. Took me up to his studio in Albany, got my togs off, sketching away like a madman. I suppose that’s where I first got the idea. Worth a few bob now, I suppose. Might come in handy.”
The poor old bastard looked utterly defeated.
“Come on, Captain. Is that what they taught you in the Navy? We’ve got to fight back.”
“The battle is already lost, dear boy. It’s time for a strategic withdrawal. I have an unmarried niece in Hampshire, or is it Wiltshire? I shall throw myself on her charity.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re going to find out who is doing this and beat them at their own game.”
“I wish you all the luck in the world, but I fear that Gozo is no longer a friendly place for people like me. It’s changing. The old order passeth. Oh, it was wonderful before—even just a few years ago. Everyone minded their own business, we all got along just fine. The dear old couple that used to run the Continental, for instance.”
“The Andersons?”
“Lovely people. Great friends to me. But then they packed up in a hurry, and there was that poor boy’s death, and suddenly it’s all whispering and finger pointing and policemen turning up at one’s house.”
“What happened?”
“The same as happens everywhere. The law, the church, all those dreadful respectable people who have never lived. They catch up with us. I’ve always been running from them. I thought I’d found safe haven at last, but it appears not.”
“Why did the Andersons sell up?”
“They’d had enough, they said. Wanted to return to England to be looked after when they got old. I didn’t believe a word of it. Never saw a healthier, happier couple in my life.”
“So what do you think?”
“They were forced out, just as I’m being.”
“How?”
“The Andersons were not exactly conventional. They came from somewhat Bohemian circles, you might say. It was a happy marriage, but quite unusual.”
“You mean they had separate interests?”
“Quite so. They married for companionship and respectability. I should have done the same. There were plenty of understanding girls.”
“But why would they just leave? They had a thriving business— everyone seems to have loved them.”
“Things went on in that hotel that were against the law.”
“They still do, I assure you, Captain.” I thought of Bill Conrad, Henry Jessop…
“Really?” He perked up at last. “I’m delighted to hear it, dear boy. That’s one in the eye for the bloody bastards.”
“Who? The new owners?”
“Oh, I’ve nothing against them, particularly. She’s a tarty little thing, and he’s rather too fond of the booze, but they’re doing their best.” If the Captain had known what Martin told me about his wife’s sexual appetites, and my own suspicions about Martin’s extramarital activities, he might be better disposed towards them, but that was not my secret to reveal. “I mean whoever it is that’s persecuting me.”
“And you really don’t know who?”
“There’s that frightful old woman. She’s always calling one names.”
“She doesn’t seem quite sane enough to achieve all this, though. Forcing the Andersons out, and now you.”
“Then I don’t know. I wish I did.”
“But you pay someone.”
“I send money to a poste restante address in Malta.”
“You have the number?”
“Of course. Much good may it do you.”
“Captain, I’m beginning to think that you want to be defeated. Either that, or you’re still not telling me the truth.”
“The truth is that I’m very old, and very tired, and I’ve spent the night being bullied by those bloody thugs up in Victoria, and I’m scared, and I want to go to bed. Is that enough truth for you, Mitch?”
A church bell, clearly audible in the still morning air, struck six. It was time for everyone to get some rest, before the village woke up to another day of deepening mystery and spiraling lies.
X
I FELL ASLEEP FEELING VERY SORRY FOR MYSELF, FOR THE Captain, for all of us poor harried souls, always hiding, always running from the vengeful Furies of society.
A couple of hours’ sleep was enough to get over that, and decided that by the time I’d eaten a good breakfast I would be determined to fight back. I’d find out who was responsible for the deaths of Ned Porter and Joseph Vella; I’d clip the wings of the Gozo blackmailer, whoever it may be; and I’d make the island a safe haven once again for the Captain and his kind. For me, if it came to it. Gozo seemed like Paradise. All I had to do was hunt down the Serpent.
I went downstairs for breakfast, eager to fortify myself for a day’s sleuthing.
“Aaaaaaaaaargh!”
A woman’s voice was raised in an ear-splitting scream. I entered the lobby to see Claire Sutherland in a perfect theatrical attitude of rage and despair, her hands clutching her hair, eyes wide, mouth open. Grouped around her were Tilly and Martin Dear, Ralph the porter and Stella the cook, all looking extremely nervous.
“Doctor Mitchell! Thank God!” Claire threw herself into my arms. “Save me from this gang of thieves!”
“What on earth is the matter?”
“I’ve been robbed! Robbed! All my jewelry! My money! Gone!” She spun around and hissed at the Dears and their staff. “I know you’re all in it together, waiting until people are asleep or out of their rooms and then helping yourselves. Is that how you’re keeping the place going? Did you really think nobody would notice?” Her voice was getting louder and louder, another scream building. I’m used to dealing with hysterics, so I slipped straight into my professional role.
“Sit down, Miss Sutherland. Ralph, fetch a brandy from the bar. Now, has anyone telephoned the police?”
I caught a glance between Martin and Tilly. “Not quite yet,” said Tilly, as cool as a cucumber, her hair and makeup immaculate. I may have been immune to her curves, but there was no doubt that she was a capable young woman. And if she was an uncontrollable nymphomaniac—well, that was just something we had in common. “I thought we should ask a few basic questions first.”
“There is nothing to ask!” shrieked Claire, obviously enjoying her role of outraged victim. “I have been robbed, and someone knows who did it! Who has access to the rooms? You do! You and your staff!” She jabbed a red-nailed finger towards Tilly. “Thieves, the lot of you!”
Tilly did not rise to the bait. “Please, Claire. Let’s try to remain civil, at least. Look, here’s Ralph with your brandy. Have a little sip of that.”
Claire grabbed the glass and knocked it back in one.
“… and you’ll feel better. Now,” continued Tilly, “please think very carefully. Is there a possibility that anyone has been in your room
?” She knew full well, of course, that La Sutherland had been entertaining ever since her arrival; any one of Claire’s visitors could have slipped the bijoux into his pocket.
“My friends are above suspicion.”
“Of course, of course,” said Tilly. “But mistakes of this kind are so easily made. Misunderstandings about gifts, and such like.”
“How dare you!” said Claire, but her voice had lost its warlike tones. “I insist that you call the police.”
“Very well,” said Tilly, her hand reaching for the desk telephone. “If you’re sure you want to answer all their questions. I believe they are very thorough in their investigations.” She picked up the receiver. “Hello? Operator? Police, please. Yes, it’s an emergency.”
“Just one moment.” Claire raised a hand; bracelets slid down to her elbow. “Perhaps that won’t be necessary.”
Tilly replaced the receiver; I was far from convinced she’d even spoken to the operator.
“Let us not be rash,” said Claire. “I’m sure we can sort this out by ourselves. As you say, it’s quite possible that there’s been a misunderstanding. Let me think.” She pressed her index finger to her temple and stared at the ceiling—stage shorthand for thinking. “I have hosted a couple of little receptions in my room—dear local friends, so pleased to see one return for another summer.” Local men, more like, so pleased to see the Sutherland purse opening. “Perhaps I may have tidied my things away rather too quickly. You see, one is used to having a ladies’ maid and a dresser.”
Like hell, I thought. “What exactly are you missing, Claire?”
“Some diamond and sapphire earrings, and a quantity of cash.”
I too was missing a quantity of cash, but I didn’t mention that just yet. There was a burglar in our midst. Henry Jessop, as I first suspected? Or Martin Dear, desperate for money and with access to every room?
“Perhaps you could go up and have a look for us,” said Tilly, a touch patronizingly, “before I sound the general alarm.”
“I will go,” said Claire, mustering what dignity she could, “but not because you ask me. This would never have happened under the Andersons, let me tell you that. Never.”
“Thank you, Claire,” said Tilly, catching my eye and daring me to laugh. And yes, it was funny. And yet, and yet, and yet—had other people lost things? Were they, too, unwilling to be questioned by the police? Was it just Claire’s love of drama that prompted her to make her accusations? I’d kept quiet; had others?
The Jessops were in the lounge reading the newspapers, giving a very good impression of being oblivious to the whole nasty business but undoubtedly listening to every word. I strolled in and joined them.
“Good morning. Lovely day.”
They looked at me with distaste, nodded, and returned to their reading.
“What a lot of fuss about nothing, huh? Miss Sutherland. I bet you she’s just squirreled those earrings away in her stockings or something.”
Mrs. Jessop looked shocked, as if the mention of a lady’s stockings was rather improper. Her husband frowned.
“Are you missing anything from your room, sir? Madam?”
“Of course not,” snapped Mr. Jessop, shaking his newspaper. “We are not the sort of people who get burgled.”
“What about Henry?”
They both looked up. “What about him?”
“He’s not lost anything, has he?” Like his cherry, for instance.
“Certainly not. We are a respectable family.”
“Bad things happen to good people,” I said, wondering how they’d respond if they’d seen what dear Henry was doing in my room a few hours ago. “By the way, where is he? Taking a swim?”
Mr. Jessop cleared his throat. “Henry has been out since early this morning. Exploring the island, I suppose. He has his freedom.”
That wasn’t my impression. Perhaps he’d slipped the leash. “Well, that’s great. Perhaps I’ll catch him across the bay.”
“Yes, perhaps you will, Dr. Mitchell.” And they disappeared behind their papers.
Out since early this morning. How early? Early enough, I wondered, to slip up the cliff path to the Captain’s house and deliver a note? Early enough to sneak into Claire’s room and steal her jewelry and money? This time, the sleeper did not awake, and he didn’t get caught.
Was it Henry Jessop—young, blond, blue eyed, as innocent as the angels—who was behind it all? He’d been on the island every summer for years, by his own admission. Had he driven Ned and Joseph to their deaths? Seduced them, then betrayed them into danger? I remembered the look of shock—or fear—on Deacon Peter’s eyes when he faced Henry across the deck of the ferry. His hints, when we spoke on the cliffs, that there was someone here on the island, someone he had known before who posed a threat, someone dangerous.
And if the parents knew of Henry’s activities, condoned them even, wouldn’t they with their tweeds and their Bibles and their disapproving glances be the perfect cover? No one would suspect them, surrounded as they were by obvious sinners. They, surely, were above suspicion. What a perfect disguise.
I needed to find Henry Jessop, and this time I would not be distracted by the best piece of ass on the island. If necessary, I would force the truth out of him. Surely he held the key. Who else could it be?
It was time to put distractions aside and concentrate on solving the mystery before another body was washed up on the rocks. And in order to do so, I needed assistance. Another pair of legs to cover the island, another pair of eyes, and, if possible, someone with a cock, ass and mouth that I could use whenever necessary and thus prevent myself from being led astray.
“May I use the phone?” I asked Martin in the lobby. “It’s just a call to the garrison at Valetta.”
And with surprising ease, I persuaded Frank Southern to release Sergeant Major William Conrad from regular duties and send him over to Gozo on a special mission.
I could hardly wait for his arrival.
Those of you familiar with my biological rhythms may have noted that it was now twenty-four hours since I last had sex—well below my usual average. Put it down to the advancing years, the blow to the head I sustained in Valetta, the heat or my preoccupation with the case, but by the time Bill Conrad was due to arrive on the island I was pacing up and down with frustration, knowing too well that if I sat down in private for more than a minute I’d have to relieve myself. To prevent accidents I walked to the harbor and waited for the boat to arrive, like Cho-Cho San scanning the horizon for Pinkerton’s return.
I tried to clear my mind of the case, to allow the facts as recently reviewed to form themselves into pattern and order, but I lack mental discipline. There’s only one way I’ve ever found to stop myself from thinking, and that’s by taking a big, hard cock up my ass. And so, until the Sergeant Major could oblige, thoughts whirled like a deadly kaleidoscope. Blackmail, blackmail, blackmail— that’s what it kept coming back to. Wasn’t the truth staring me in the face? An island full of secrets, and someone had the greed and cunning to exploit them. Their motive? Money, of course—we all need money, some more urgently than others. What else? Guilt for pleasures regretted, a fear of discovery? A moral crusade, punishing wrongdoers by taking judgment into your own hands? Sheer malice, perhaps: I’ve come across it before, the blind, unreasoning hatred that needs no justification. Too many options, too many suspects. My brain whirred. I needed to stop thinking. I needed Bill.
And there it was at last, the thread of smoke on the horizon, and soon the high whine of the engine as Bill steered the boat into Xlendi harbor, cutting the motor and gliding to the sea wall, his sleeves rolled up, dark glasses covering his eyes.
“Mitch!” He waved and shouted, as pleased to see me as I was him, then jumped out, tied up the boat and came down the promenade in a loping run. Okay, he wasn’t as pretty as Henry Jessop or as handsome as Joseph Vella, but he was exactly what this doctor ordered. I couldn’t take my eyes off the front of his pants, where things we
re swinging free.
“Sergeant Major Conrad.”
He stopped, stamped to attention and saluted, showing his teeth in a carnivorous smile. “Reporting for duty, Dr. Mitchell, sir. Lieutenant Colonel Southern said it was urgent.”
“It’s very fucking urgent. You need to come up to my room right now.”
He touched his groin. “I’ve been ready all the way over. Want to feel?”
The harbor was busy as the cafes opened, but I managed a swift grab of the goods; Bill’s cock was solid, and if I was any judge he wasn’t wearing underpants.
“Let’s go.”
We raced along the promenade and up the steps like school boys playing truant. The Continental lobby was busy, the dining room full, and for all I knew the eyes of a dozen blackmailers were watching me taking a uniformed soldier up to my room. If they cared to listen on the stairwell, they would get an earful. If Henry Jessop chose that moment to come sneaking again, we’d both fuck his brains out.
I went as fast as I could, but it wasn’t fast enough for Bill. “Hurry up, Mitch. I’m fucking desperate.” He was grabbing my ass as we climbed the stone stairs to my room, pulling and poking with his thick fingers. He knew what I wanted.
We almost fell through the door. As soon as it was closed he pushed me against it, grinding his crotch into mine, kissing me, pulling my shirt open. I was as hard as he was, and when he pinched my tit I felt a surge down to my cock as if I might come right away. His mouth tasted of cigarettes and coffee, and I couldn’t get enough of it. When I reached down to grab his dick, the front of his pants was wet.
“Get your trousers off and get on the fucking bed, mate.”
I managed to kick off my shoes and drop my pants before Bill pushed me down, face first, onto the mattress. He wasn’t in the mood for preliminaries; his big, calloused hands pried my buttocks apart and he went straight in with his tongue, loosening me up and getting me wet for what was to come.