by James Lear
“Never mind. Mmm, that looks delicious. Now, does everyone have drinks? Cigarettes?”
“Oh, what the hell,” said Henry, reaching out for a cocktail.
“Henry!” said his parents in unison.
“Give the kid a break,” I said. “He’s not a child any more, is he? He’s a man. Come on, Henry. Fill your boots.”
He took the glass and stood by the windows at the back of the lounge; they looked out to a tiny paved courtyard behind which the cliffs continued their rise above the town. No escape that way, just in case anyone thought of making a run for it.
“Anyway, where was I? Let me see…” I counted things off on my fingers. “The attack in Valetta, the burglaries in the hotel, what else was there? I’m sure there was something…” I was playing for time, half hoping that Bill would deliver telegrams that his little protégé Private Rhys was under strict instructions to bring down from Victoria the minute they arrived. Without them I was improvising, however certain my hypothesis. But delivery came there none. “Oh yes, of course. How could I forget? A dead body.”
The silence was punctuated by the clink of ice as Martin poured himself a third glass of Tom Collins.
“Quite an eventful few days, wouldn’t you say? Not exactly the restful holiday I was hoping for.” I laughed. “It’ll be a relief to get back to work, to be honest.”
Six pairs of eyes stared at the carpet, the plants, the windows— anything but me, or each other.
“It’s like being in a detective novel, isn’t it? All those unexplained crimes, and a lot of people with secrets from each other. Anyone else here read Agatha Christie?”
“I have appeared in some of her works for the stage,” said Claire, rather grandly.
“How ’bout you, Jessops?”
“We read serious literature,” said Mr. Jessop.
“Well then, allow me to tell you a story. Is everyone ready?”
“What is all this about, Mitch?” Claire was getting restless. “I have an appointment. I thought you said… Well, never mind.”
“I’ll come to that,” I said, aware that she was eager to get her letters back. “For the time being, indulge me. I will try to keep things brief. But where to begin?” I rubbed my forehead, as if thinking hard, still glancing at the door for a delivery that never came. “I have it. My story begins here at the Continental Hotel, two years ago.”
“I thought you said this was your first visit,” said Martin, his speech starting to slur. “Never set foot on the island before.”
“Quite right,” I said. “But others were here before me, and others will remain when I leave, I have no doubt. Only two years ago— such a short time, but so much has changed. The Continental was under different management, to begin with.”
“The dear Andersons,” said Claire. “How we miss them.” She looked around the lounge. “Where is Tilly? Shouldn’t she be here?”
“She should, Claire, but I have a feeling she’s suddenly rather busy. As you mentioned the Andersons, let’s begin with them. A nice couple, everyone tells me. You all knew them, didn’t you?”
“Not me,” said Martin.
“What? I thought they were great friends of your wife’s.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He looked flustered. “I mean, I saw them a couple of times back in England, you know, but I never really knew them.”
“And yet here you are, two years later, running their hotel.”
All eyes turned to Martin, who stared gloomily into his glass. “Running it into the ground would be more accurate.’”
“Everyone was so surprised when they decided to sell, weren’t they, Captain Hathaway?”
“Rather. Told me they’d be here for keeps. Absolutely no desire to return to England, and I for one can’t blame them. Horrible cold place. Cold people.”
“And yet, without warning, they packed up and left a thriving business and all the friends they’d made over the years, without explanation. Did they ever tell your wife why they were selling, Martin?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
“I’d love to. But as she’s not here, perhaps you can enlighten us.”
“All I can say was that Tilly was absolutely thrilled when they offered it to her. She’d come into a pot of money, you see, and we’d always talked about running a little hotel. Sort of a pipe dream I suppose you’d call it, but suddenly there it was being handed to us on a plate, and we had the wherewithal, you see. Too good to be true.”
“How very fortunate for you—and for us, who have enjoyed your hospitality.”
“Hospitality?” barked Claire. “I’ve been burgled. You yourself, Mitch, have been insulted—I was there, I heard it for myself. Added to all those other troubles… Well, I shan’t be returning. That’s that. I’ve decided.”
“Now, Claire,” I said, “let’s not make any rash decisions. I’m sure you’ll be here next summer, at least.”
“Don’t talk in riddles, Mitch. Get on with the story. Your audience is restless.”
“You’re right. Two years ago. The Andersons’ last summer. The year that Ned Porter died. I’m sure everyone remembers that, or at least heard about it. Tilly was telling me just the other day how upset she got thinking about it, and she wasn’t even here. A tragedy. A young man just starting out in life. What made him so desperate that he would throw himself off a cliff? Suicide, that’s what everyone said, wasn’t it? The police had the note that Ned had written to his commanding officer. But that struck me as strange. If you’re going to kill yourself, who do you write to? Your boss or your loved ones?”
“What is the point of this ridiculous story?” said Mr. Jessop. “You’re upsetting my wife.”
“Mrs. Jessop is such a nervous creature,” I said. “Maybe I should prescribe her a tonic. In the meantime, a drink would do just as well. And the point of this story is that everything leads back to the death of Ned Porter. He wrote to his CO —a man whom he disliked and feared. Not to his best friend, not even to his sister, who had only just visited from England. That seems strange, and very much out of character. But then, suicide was out of character too. Ned Porter was a happy, popular young man with everything to live for. Wasn’t he, Captain Hathaway?”
“Oh yes, he always seemed a cheerful sort. Nothing morbid about him.”
“And he was in love.”
“An unhappy love, perhaps,” said Henry. It was the first time he had spoken.
“No. He was very happy. He loved a man who loved him in return.” A man—it was out at last. Throats were cleared, feet shuffled. “Alf Lutterall, a private at the garrison in Valetta. They made plans for a future together—to leave the army, to travel…they didn’t much care what or where. They had each other. And then Ned was taken away. Alf, who loved him with all his heart, had his future stolen from him.”
“Suicide is such a selfish crime,” said Claire, “however desperately sorry for these poor chaps one must feel.”
“But murder,” I said, “is even more so. Murder is the ultimate selfish act—taking another life for your own benefit.”
“But who could possibly benefit from Ned’s death?” asked the Captain. “That’s what I can’t understand. These boys have nothing. That’s why they’re always touching one for a few bob.”
“On the contrary, Ned was rather well off—or would have been, if he’d survived. His father wasn’t a millionaire, but he was quite comfortable. Ned would have inherited half his estate—but he died too soon, a week or so before his father.”
“You mean,” said Henry, interested despite himself, “that someone murdered him for his inheritance?”
“Exactly so. And that person is on the island now.”
XII
EVERYONE STARED AT ME, WAITING FOR AN EXPLANATION.
Captain Hathaway broke the silence. “Dear boy, you’re not seriously suggesting that one of us is a murderer, are you? Things like that simply don’t happen.”
“For goodness’ sake, Dr. Mitchell,
” whimpered Mrs. Jessop, “tell us what you want to tell us and let us go. This is unbearable.”
I had no intention of letting them off the hook that easily— besides, it was in the telling of the story that I hoped to ascertain for certain the identity of the guilty party. In the absence of any hard evidence—nothing had been delivered from the barracks at Victoria—I was putting my hypothesis under considerable stress. I just hoped that someone would crack and confess, or otherwise give themselves away. A desperate action, perhaps. A gun waved around the Continental lounge, a bolt for the door.
“Everyone all right for drinks?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Mitch,” It was Martin, already half drunk. “Can I go, at least? I have other guests to take care of.”
“Let’s not break up the party yet, please. The fun is only just beginning. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Two years ago, just before Ned Porter died, he had a visit from his sister Patricia. Nobody here met her, did they?”
There was a general shrugging and nodding of heads.
“From what I understand she was not the sort of person who would make a big impression. Quiet, thin, mousy—nobody would give her a second look. She was the one who stayed at home while her brother Ned travelled around the world with the army. Their parents were in poor health—Patricia had to nurse her mother in her final illness, and when she died the poor girl had the sole care of her father. Imagine it—a young woman just starting out in life, trapped into being a nurse and a drudge for a difficult old man, while her brother was free. She loved her brother, but she resented him as well, particularly as he would inherit half her parents’ estate when the father died. Why should he have all that money, when he hadn’t been there to earn it? She’d worked her fingers to the bone, sacrificed herself for her parents’ care, and she deserved to be rewarded. As time went by, the old man started to get sick, and Patricia became obsessed by the idea of the inheritance. She was determined to keep every last penny—and to that end, she hatched a plan to rob her brother of his share. But how could she disinherit him? He was the apple of his father’s eye. There were only two ways of doing it. Firstly, she could discredit him in some way, so that Mr. Porter cut him off without a penny. Secondly, she could kill him. And so, as her father entered his final illness, she left him in the care of a paid nurse and travelled out to Malta to see Ned one last time.”
A lot of this was improvisation; I had no evidence, and my reading of human nature is, as we all know, far too influenced by detective fiction. However, the audience seemed to be lapping it up, so I continued with the narrative I had concocted.
“She traveled all the way to Malta and spent a couple days playing the loving sister. Ned brought her over to Gozo, showed her the sights and took her into his confidence. He was in love, he told her, and planning to leave the army to start a new life somewhere. Oh, she was so delighted, so pleased for him. Who was the lucky girl, she asked? She couldn’t wait to meet her new sister-in-law! And then Ned told her the truth, because he was an honest person, and he believed that his sister loved him enough to understand. He wasn’t in love with a girl—he was in love with a man, a soldier in the same regiment, Alf Lutterall. This was just what Patricia had been waiting for—an opportunity to discredit her brother, to blacken his name. She was so careful—she pretended she was happy for him, but she kept saying how awful it would be if father found out, how he’d cut him off without a penny. But Ned didn’t give a damn. He laughed in her face, told her he didn’t care what the old man thought, he and Alf just wanted to be free and together.
“This was a setback for Patricia. She thought she could manipulate Ned into giving up his share of the estate, but he didn’t care about the money. I suppose she could have gone straight home and told her father everything, but it was too great a risk. What if Mr. Porter was so disgusted with her tale-bearing that he left all the money to someone else? The kind nurse, for instance, Alice Butter-worth. Or the stray dogs’ home. She could easily lose the lot. Mr. Porter was a stubborn old man with little love for his children; he hadn’t even made a will, he cared so little for them. They would inherit as next of kin, but he made it quite clear he didn’t give a damn. Without a will to work on, Patricia Porter was entirely at the mercy of the bank, or whoever ended up administrating her father’s estate. They wouldn’t be interested in any tittle-tattle about her brother’s love life. She would surely lose the money she believed was rightly hers.
“And so, by his honesty, courage and optimism, Ned Porter sealed his fate. Patricia had only one option left to her: murder.”
Martin interrupted again. “Are we supposed to believe that this mousy little girl murdered her own brother? Seems bloody unlikely from all you’ve told us. Why didn’t he just tick her off and get rid of her?”
“I don’t imagine he suspected a thing.”
“What, she took him by surprise? That’s ridiculous. He was a soldier. She was just a…just a…”
“Women,” said Claire Sutherland, with all the dignity she could muster, “are quite capable of murder, thank you very much.”
All eyes in the room were on her. Was this the confession I’d been waiting for? Was my hypothesis about to be proven?
“I don’t know why you’re all looking at me like that. I didn’t kill him. I never even met him or his wretched sister.”
“Ah, but you did, Claire. You told me yourself that you had seen a mousy young woman at the Continental. A bluestocking, you called her. The summer before last, you said.”
“That could be anyone. Anyway, what of it? People come and go through here all the time.”
“But that particular year, at that particular time, just before the death of Ned Porter, and there was someone in this very room answering to her description. Do you remember what you told me?”
“I really couldn’t say.” Claire was getting nervous and fidgety, no longer sure of her lines.
“You said that the most unlikely people brought guests to the Continental. You even saw this skinny, plain young woman carrying on with a priest! A man of the cloth! Do you recall?”
“Something of the sort, but it could have been someone entirely different.”
“I think not. What did the priest look like, Claire? Cast your mind back.”
“Oh, you know. Priestlike. Tall. Dark. Handsome.” “What color was his hair?”
“You can’t expect me to remember details like that after such a long time.”
“You’re an actress, Claire. You pick up on these details. Come on. Think.”
“Dark hair, then. Not jet black like the local men, but very dark brown.”
“There you are. A handsome young clergyman with dark hair. Does that sound familiar?”
Henry was squirming in his seat as if he was desperate to go to the bathroom. I left him to stew for now.
“Well I’m bloody confused,” said the Captain. “What’s this priest got to do with anything? Island’s crawling with them, like black beetles—always turning up where they’re not wanted. Admittedly they don’t venture in here much, at least they didn’t in the old days. But still, I don’t see what you’re driving at.”
“Patricia Porter didn’t come to Malta alone,” I said.
“You mean she travelled with a priest?” said the Captain. “Was she devout?”
“Far from it. The clerical garb was a disguise, and a very effective one. As you say, the island’s crawling with priests. Nobody’s going to notice one more.”
“Is anyone in this story who they appear to be?” said Mr. Jessop.
“Yes. One person: Ned Porter. He knew exactly who and what he was, and he never tried to hide it from anyone. And that, in a roundabout way, is why he died. If he’d been willing to lie and to hide, he might still be living today. But Ned was happy and in love with another man.”
“Disgusting,” said Mr. Jessop, which, considering that at least three of us in the room were man-lovers like Ned, was met with a frosty silence.
“Live and
let live, Mr. Jessop,” said Claire. “Surely you have learned that from your regular trips to the Continental. I have often wondered why you come here, considering your somewhat Victorian views. Unless, of course, you and your wife have a secret as well.”
“How dare you?” said Mr. Jessop, but then the wind went out of his sails. He must have guessed that I knew about Henry.
“May I continue?”
“I wish you bloody would,” said Martin.
“Patricia had an accomplice on Malta, someone who traveled with her and was just as prepared as she was to do whatever it took to secure the inheritance. He kept out of the way, and only went around in disguise, but when Patricia realized that she had to act quickly, he came over to Gozo and they hatched a plan. He would gain Ned’s confidence, get him alone and then murder him. So this false priest befriended Ned, seduced him perhaps, and then smashed his head in with a rock. After that it was a simple matter to push the body from one of the highest cliffs on the island, forge a suicide note which was posted to Ned’s CO, plant some evidence of blackmail and leave the rest to supposition. Patricia made a point of leaving Malta a day or two before Ned’s death, so that she was above suspicion. Her accomplice stayed around to report on the investigation, and when he was satisfied that the police and the military authorities had swallowed the suicide story, he either rejoined her in England or waited for her here. Patricia had business to attend to at home—her father was near death, and she had to be present at the end and play the grieving daughter. But all the time she was making her plans and waiting for the money to come through.
“She didn’t have to wait long. The old man was intestate, which now worked to her advantage. Patricia would inherit the lot. Her father promised gifts to one or two people, including the nurse, Alice Butterworth, but none of it was legally enforceable. Probate was granted in a few months, and Patricia was suddenly a rich young woman. And she knew exactly what she was going to spend the money on. She’d been laying her plans very carefully, getting all the pieces in position. This wasn’t the first crime that Patricia Porter had committed. Everyone thought she was just what she appeared to be, a quiet spinster who would never amount to anything. It was good camouflage. For some years, Patricia Porter had been an active and accomplished blackmailer. She knew exactly how to sniff out weakness and secrecy, and she exploited it brilliantly. And now, when she had pulled off the biggest crime of her career, she was ready to move onto greener pastures. While she was in Malta, she’d stumbled upon the most lucrative nest of blackmail victims imaginable—a whole hotel full of people with secrets. She couldn’t believe her luck. She wanted it—and in order to exploit it, she had to control it. And so she got to work on the only people who stood between her and this revolting life of crime—the owners of the Continental.”