by James Lear
“You of all people should understand the power of theatrical illusion,” I said. “The hair was bleached and set; now that it’s wet she looks more like herself. The makeup has washed off her face. As for her body—well, that’s why Tilly Dear never went near the water. She couldn’t appear in public without her disguise—a bit of padding here and there turned skinny spinster Pat Porter into blonde bombshell Tilly Dear. Tilly hated the sea and the sun; Patricia was an excellent swimmer and climber and runner. Remember this morning at your house, Captain? When I tried to chase the person who delivered the blackmail note?”
“Her? Tilly? Well I never.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Henry. “Who did this to her?” He glanced down at Martin who was on his knees, his arm twisted behind his back in Bill’s iron grip. “Nobody had the opportunity. We were all in the hotel.”
That worried me for a moment. Was it the same person who had tried to kill me, perhaps—hired and paid by Martin Dear, no doubt? Was there still some mysterious unknown? No. Of course not. The truth dawned at last.
“What you’re looking at, my friends,” I said, pointing down at Tilly’s—Patricia’s—battered, bleeding but still breathing body, “is the only real suicide on the island.”
“Typical!” snapped Claire, turning on her heel and heading back to the hotel. “She even managed to mess that up.”
Alf looked as if he might faint at any moment.
“Captain, could you get him up to your house, please? I’ll join you as soon as the ambulance arrives.”
I was trying to staunch the flow of blood from Tilly’s head while checking that her airways were clear and that she was still breathing. Whatever she’d done, I still had to try to save her life— even if it was only to hand her over to the police for trial and inevitable execution. Bill, meanwhile, was sitting on top of Martin’s prostrate body, pinning him with his knees and holding one arm backward in a painful twist. If Martin struggled, Bill would break his arm.
We heard the bell first, jangling as the police car hurtled down the hill from Victoria. The Captain flinched then hurried up the steps to the Continental with Alf leaning heavily on his arm. Tires scrunched on the sandy promenade, and three uniformed officers got out of the car.
“These,” I said, “are the killers of Ned Porter and Joseph Vella. And, incidentally, the perpetrators of a major blackmail operation.”
An ambulance joined the police car on the promenade. Tilly was loaded into one, Martin into the other.
“We will need a statement, sir,” said the senior cop, who was about seven feet tall and looked as if he needed to shave three times a day. “But first, you’d better get cleaned up.”
I looked down at my clothes—the smart suit and fresh shirt I’d put on for my little cocktail party—and they were covered in blood.
Bill and I washed and changed quickly, barely taking time to kiss. My responsibility now was to Alf Lutterall, and for once I was able to put my appetites second to my duty. Obviously I groped Bill to full erection before we went back downstairs, and he slipped a thick finger into my ass, but by the time we reached the lobby we were decent. Frank Southern was waiting for us. Baffled guests, some of whom had witnessed the waterfront drama, were pressing around the front desk where Claire Sutherland dispensed information and advice as to the manner born, ordering Ralph and Stella around like her own vassals.
“Now all of you listen!” she commanded, quelling the hubbub with a sparkling hand. “Dinner may be a bit late, but it will be served in the very near future. We all have to muck in together during this crisis. All for one and one for all! And if you would like to make your way to the lounge, I’m sure Ralph will find a bottle of something drinkable…”
We left her in charge and made our way down the steps, along the harbor wall, past Vella’s bar (closed again) and up the steep, rubbish-strewn steps to the clifftop. Some holiday this had turned out to be—a murder, an attempt on my life, a suicide bid that may yet prove successful, three lovers in four days… Yes, I reflected, it was pretty much perfect.
Captain Hathaway had made Alf comfortable on a couch with rugs and brandy. His eyes were closed, his face still pale, ghostly. But he looked up on our arrival, and even managed a weak smile.
“Mitch…Doc…Bill…” He tried to stand.
“You stay right there,” said Frank, moving in beside him to check his pulse and feel his brow for any sign of fever. Bill, standing at my side, nudged me in the ribs. I could read his mind, and I agreed with him: Frank and Alf would make a lovely couple. Something to sort out before I left, perhaps. I had to stick around for the police investigation. What was one miracle more or less?
“What happened to them?” asked Alf, once Frank had pronounced him fit to talk and the Captain had furnished us all with drinks. The seaward windows were open, admitting the eerie sound of the shearwaters flying back to their roosts as the last light of the sun went down into the sea.
“They’re gone,” I said. “She’ll be in the hospital for a while, then she’ll join Martin in custody while the police prepare their case.”
“I suppose I’ll have to give evidence.”
“We all will,” I said. “Between us, we know everything.”
“Do we?” Alf rubbed his forehead. “I feel like I don’t understand anything anymore. That woman… Was that really her? Ned’s sister? Was it a dream?”
“No dream,” I said, sipping a whiskey. “She’s been here all along, right under our noses, hiding her identity under bleached hair and makeup and padding. She was already a hardened criminal back in England; we’ve had a telegram from Scotland Yard that confirms they were investigating her for a string of blackmails. She was biding her time, waiting for her father to be near death before she made her decisive move.”
“You mean she planned to kill Ned all along? Her own brother?”
“I think first of all she intended to force his hand by threatening to reveal his secret to their father, in the hope that Ned would renounce his share of the inheritance. That didn’t work, because Ned wasn’t ashamed. He wanted the world to know.”
“That’s what he always said,” said Alf. “It was me who thought we had to hide.”
“And when she realized that she couldn’t blackmail him, she resorted to the only means she had left to secure the money. She ordered Martin to kill him.”
“Why in God’s name would he do that?” said Frank. “He didn’t seem like such a bad sort. Stupid, but fundamentally decent.”
“Don’t you believe it,” I said. “Martin was putting on just as much of an act as his wife. He’s just as greedy and immoral as she is. He spun me a lot of lies about how they were being blackmailed, how his wife was dragging them down, and at the time I believed it all. She may have been the brains in that partnership, but he was a very willing accomplice. He killed Ned by bashing his head in with a rock, then dumping him over the cliff. Patricia wrote the suicide note to Captain Haymon and planted the blackmail note in Ned’s room when she was visiting. She made sure that she was out of the way when the murder took place; no suspicion must be attracted to her, the sister who inherited her father’s entire estate due to a horrible coincidence.”
“And I thought that the army had done it,” sighed Alf. “I thought they wanted us out of the way.”
“No. They are no more guilty of Ned’s death than you are. Their culpability lies elsewhere.”
“What do you mean?” said Frank, looking angry.
“They failed to investigate the death properly. They took everything at face value, just as Patricia hoped they would. By trying to avoid a scandal, they abetted a murderer. There will have to be an enquiry. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Don’t stir up trouble,” said Frank.
“Why not? How will things ever change if we don’t?”
“I admire your ideals, Mitch, but I think you should leave the decision to Alf,” said Frank. “He’s the one who’ll be in the spotlight. As things ar
e, they’ll probably make it up to him somehow. An honorable discharge with a generous pension—”
“You mean hush money.”
Frank ignored me; he was addressing himself to Alf. “Or a good chance of promotion if he decides to stay.” They looked into each other’s eyes for a long time. The rest of us held our breaths. Perhaps my suspicions about Frank Southern were not entirely groundless, despite his protestations. Either that, or he was taking the good doctor act to ridiculous extremes.
“I’ll do whatever Lieutenant Colonel Southern advises me to do,” said Alf. “If it wasn’t for him, none of this would have been sorted out. I’d have been sent back home to the loony bin. It was only because he believed me…” He swallowed hard, his eyes wet.
Frank cleared his throat. “Well, I didn’t make a very good job of it, did I? Too scared of asking the right questions. Had to get expert help.” He sounded gruff and embarrassed. Alf sighed, leaned into Frank until his head was resting on his chest, and closed his eyes.
“Well, you know the system better than I,” I said at last. “If it was up to me, every officer who was complicit in the cover-up would be thrown out…”
“But it’s not up to you, thankfully,” said Frank. “The army will deal with this. And I will make sure that it is handled properly.”
“I bet he will,” Bill murmured in my ear.
“So there was never any blackmail,” said Alf. “I knew it. He would have told me.”
“Nobody was blackmailing Ned,” I said. “That rumor was very efficiently started by Patricia. But pretty much everyone else was involved in blackmail, either as perpetrator or victim. Patricia blackmailed the Andersons into selling up in the first place. She’s been collecting from Captain Hathaway, after stealing certain incriminating photographs from his studio.”
“I must review my security arrangements,” mumbled the Captain, blushing even redder than usual.
“Martin Dear was being blackmailed—not by the Black Crow on account of his wife’s promiscuity, as he tried to make out, but by the man he’d been foolish enough to have sex with after he murdered Ned. Exhilarated or remorseful, but almost certainly drunk, he allowed himself to be picked up by Joseph Vella, the experienced gigolo, and put into a highly compromising position. When Martin and Patricia returned to the island with their new identities, nobody recognized them: different hair, different clothes, different shape. But then Joseph saw Martin out swimming, and he remembered the body he had made love to. He saw an opportu nity to earn some extra money by threatening to tell Martin’s wife what had happened. Martin kept his secret—at the cost of Joseph’s life. Same crime, different motive. He bashed Joseph’s head in and placed the body at the foot of the cliffs. Another suicide, it seemed, and this time our friend the Captain nearly swung for it.”
“I suppose I’m off the hook now,” said the Captain, looking more cheerful than he had in days.
“I might have been next,” I continued. “Tilly, I mean Patricia, tried me out as a blackmail victim the morning after I’d been entertaining a certain Sergeant Major in my room at the Continental.” I put an arm round Bill’s shoulders and squeezed. “Tried to tell me that the guests had been complaining.”
“And basically,” said Bill, looking rather proud, “Mitch told her to fuck off.”
“Which nearly cost me my life. She sent Martin chasing after me in Valetta.”
“We even gave the bastard a lift,” said Bill.
“He followed me around the docks and bashed me over the head. I’m pretty sure he had a knife. I’d have been found with my throat cut in an alleyway if someone hadn’t stopped him. I don’t suppose I’ll ever find out who that was,” I said, thinking of the blond, bearded sailor. “And that’s when it started to unravel for Tilly and Martin Dear. The façade was crumbling. Martin was drinking too much, cracking under the pressure of what Tilly was forcing him to do. She was planning to leave him—he was too much of a liability. But when she figured out that I was onto her, she panicked. Perhaps she was trying to run away over the cliffs, and she slipped. But I think she realized there was only one way out of the trap.”
“Suicide,” said Alf.
“With proper medical care, she’ll recover,” said Frank. “She won’t escape justice that easily.”
“But I say,” said the Captain, pacing up and down with his hands behind his back, “there’s one thing I don’t understand. That young chap at the hotel, the Jessop boy. What on earth possessed him to go sticking his fingers in other people’s possessions?”
“He was desperate to escape from his parents. And who wouldn’t be? Year after year, coming back to this beautiful island, and he had no more freedom than a child. He’s in love, he wants to live his life. Who knows if it’ll last? But he deserves a chance, the same as all of us. So he stole whatever he could lay his hands on. Money, jewelry, letters, photographs. Unwittingly, he provided the clue that I needed to solve the mystery—the headless photograph of Joseph Vella, sent as a warning to Martin Dear, who, fool that he was, could not quite bring himself to throw it away. Perhaps it represented the last moment of freedom he knew before he became bound to Patricia by guilt.”
“And why on earth did they keep coming back here?” asked the Captain. “I shouldn’t have thought this was their kind of place at all. They always looked so disapproving.”
“I wondered if they were in on the blackmail act themselves at first,” I said, “but now I believe they just enjoyed being onlookers year after year, observing all the sin and depravity around them. Little did they know, it was going on right in the bosom of their family.”
“Serves them right,” said Bill. “Good for Henry. I bet he’s a great fuck.”
I’d fill Bill in on the facts of the case later, if at all. “Even Claire Sutherland was being blackmailed, I suspect, by one of her island boyfriends. We may never know the true identity of ‘Fancy,’ the man to whom she wrote those passionate letters, and paid for their return. There are plenty of men on these islands willing to take advantage of the generosity and recklessness of visitors. Claire Sutherland is easy prey.”
“She and I will have to watch our step,” said the Captain, “if we’re going into business together.”
“What?”
“Why not? She’s been due to retire for donkey’s years, although it’s not very chivalrous of me to mention it. She can sell up in London, I can sell up here, and damn me if I don’t think we could make a bloody good go of the Continental between us. And there won’t be any more blackmail or murder or any of that nonsense. Just good food, good drinks and a discreet, sympathetic landlord. We’ve discussed it before, as a kind of pipe dream. We could both carry on our…private interests. But it might be rather fun.”
“She’s already taken over, by the look of it,” said Bill. “Bossing people around. She’s in her element.”
“Perhaps for starters,” I said, “you could offer a room to Henry Jessop and Peter Allinson. I imagine the parents are clearing out pretty soon.”
“They’re welcome as my guests, either here or at the hotel.”
“That’s the spirit. Happy endings all around.” I looked at Bill, who winked at me.
“What about that awful old woman who’s always pestering me?” said the Captain. “The one you call the Black Crow.”
“She’s crazy, but she’s not stupid. She sees everything that goes on—including your liaisons with Joseph Vella and…others,” I said, unwilling to reveal that Ned had been another of the Captain’s models. “And I suspect she recognized Tilly and Martin as the skinny young woman and the dark-haired priest that Claire spotted in the Continental bar a couple of summers ago. The summer that Ned died and this whole story began.”
“Well I’ll be blowed,” said the Captain.
“And now I think we had better return to the hotel,” I said. “I shall leave my patient in your hands, Frank. Come on, Captain Hathaway. I’m sure Claire could do with some help.”
“Yes, ri
ght. Right you are. Of course. Absolutely,” blustered the old boy, barely able to tear his eyes away from the two men on the sofa.
Alf was asleep now, cradled in Frank’s arms. Frank—the robustly normal Frank, hero of the rugby pitch, adored by the island women—did not move. He blushed, and his beautiful blue eyes were wider and shinier than ever, but he stayed there holding the sleeping soldier, and he looked content.
Dinner at the Continental that evening had a carnival atmosphere, as the news spread among the guests that their picture-perfect hosts, Tilly and Martin Dear, were languishing respectively in a hospital bed and a cell, both in police custody, under arrest for a range of crimes, including murder. Every so often Claire Sutherland’s voice rang above the hubbub—“of course one never trusted them for a moment; one sees through such falsehood; I knew there was something wrong the moment I set eyes on them,” and so on, her back reading of events fast establishing itself as truth in her mind. At last she had found the role she was born to play. I hoped that she and the Captain would make a go of the Continental. Perhaps an investment of some of Aunt Dinah’s money might help. That way I’d always have a place to stay on the island—if I returned.
Bill and I were quiet as we ate, both knowing that our time was coming to an end. He had some leave to use up, and we could spend the whole time fucking each other’s brains out, but the shadow of parting was already falling. What had it meant, this last few days of danger and excitement? Was it just a distraction from the muddle and misery of my real life, the life to which I’d have to return in a few days, weeks or months? Yes, for four days I had hardly given it a thought—the guilt and sadness of losing Vince; the frustration and anger I still felt towards Morgan; the anger I felt towards myself for turning everything I touched to shit… And here it was, happening again right in front of me, as Bill mechanically ate his food, jaw working, brows contracted, barely glancing up at me. He wanted me to stay, or to give him some sign that we had a future—whether here or in London or America; it didn’t much matter to him as long as we were together. And why not? I would never find a better lover, or one with his feet planted as firmly on the ground. Bill would bring out the best in me, and he wouldn’t stand for anything less. Cheating, dishonesty, lies—all that would have to end. With Morgan, half the attraction had always been the thrill of the chase—the knowledge that he could never be mine. I could win him over for a while with my cock, but he’d always go back to his wife. He was the one that got away, the eternal “what if?”. But look what happened when I found someone who wanted me as much as I wanted him? I betrayed Vince with every breath I took. If a man loves me, I run away. Was that why I was already thinking of how soon I could leave Malta? What was I in such a hurry to get back to? My freedom? Freedom to be alone, to grow old unloved and disappointed, regretting every chance I missed?