by James Lear
“No,” said Haymon, grudgingly.
“Very well.”
“You will report to us tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred…” began Haymon, but I interrupted.
“I will do no such thing. I will work at my own pace, with official cooperation and no attempt to obstruct me. Good morning, gentlemen. I will be in touch when I am ready. And now I assume someone will take me to see my patient.”
The bluff worked. Major Telford was all charm. “Thank you so much for taking the time to come in. I am sure we are in very good hands. Good morning to you.”
I left Major Telford’s office with two facts very clear in my mind. Firstly, there was, as Frank had suggested, an extreme antipathy in the upper ranks to anything that smacked of homosexuality. Secondly, something was being hidden or hushed up. The death of Ned Porter was compromising in some way, and the mere suggestion that I would try to uncover the truth was enough to scare Major Telford into compliance. It could be the fact that nobody wanted to dredge up a tale of sodomy and blackmail that could only bring the British military presence on Malta into disrepute. But it could be more than that. A crime may have been committed—condoned or commissioned, even, by the authorities. Had Ned Porter taken his own life? Or was he killed? By whom, and to what end? By criminal elements on the island—or by the Army itself, desperate to rid itself of an embarrassment?
Telford was trying to blow smoke in my eyes, but I could blow it right back. Pretend to be on their side, use words like “morbid” and “weak” when we all knew that I really meant “queer,” and let them think I would tell them what they wanted to hear.
I had to work fast. If they had silenced Ned Porter, how long before they did the same to Alf Lutterall? Another body at the foot of the cliffs, another suicide note that mysteriously disappeared, a few grieving relatives back home, but what was that compared to the dignity of the British Army?
Frank Southern was waiting for me downstairs.
“Well?”
“Take me to my patient, Lieutenant Colonel.”
“You convinced them? I was absolutely sure they were going to throw you out.”
“Me? A renowned psychiatrist who has been treating shellshock patients back in London? Whose work has attracted favorable notice at the very highest military levels? I don’t think so.”
Frank looked so shocked I thought I was going to have to start treating him as well.
“Well, that’s what you asked for. Don’t tell me off for lying now.”
We walked out into the sunshine. As soon as we were clear of the building, Frank laughed. “Christ, Mitch, I always knew you were a cocky bastard but I had no idea you were quite so shameless.”
There was at least one soldier on the island who could testify to that, I thought, but refrained from giving Frank a blow-by-blow account of my night with Sergeant Major Conrad. Nobody could accuse him of being weak and morbid. He took what he wanted and enjoyed himself. So, he said, did plenty of the men on the island. What of Ned Porter and Alf Lutterall? Surely they were just doing the same. What was so different in their case? What had led to death for one of them and madness for the other? Had they committed the ultimate crime—the thing that really threatens the likes of Captain Haymon—and fallen in love? I would soon find out.
Frank’s offices were in the military hospital a few blocks back from the main administrative center, a ramshackle collection of wards and offices around four or five irregular courtyards. God help anyone who got lost in there—it was like a maze. Frank negotiated with thoughtless ease; I was thinking of dropping a trail of crumbs to find my way out.
“Send Lutterall up,” he said to the smart young lieutenant who seemed to serve as secretary and nurse. “This is Dr. Mitchell. I’ve brought him in for a second opinion.” The solider saluted. “I have surgery in a few minutes, so I’m going to leave you and Alf Lutterall together.” He looked me sternly in the eye. “It goes without saying that I expect the highest professional standards.”
“You mean you don’t want me to fuck him.”
He sighed. “If you must put it like that, yes.”
“Don’t worry, Frank. We renowned nerve specialists don’t actually touch our patients. We just get them up on the couch…”
“Careful, Mitch.”
“And let them talk. What could be more innocent than that?”
He looked suddenly serious. “Don’t let me down. I’ve moved mountains to get this far, because I actually care about Alf Lutterall. Please don’t play into the hands of Captain Haymon.”
“Understood. I’ll behave.”
Southern’s office, where I’d been left to await my patient, was a little less plush and ornate than Major Telford’s, but nonetheless it was spacious, clean and bright. Books lined one wall, filing cabinets another. There was a desk and a table and a couple of old leather armchairs. Harsh morning sunshine blazed through the windows; I pulled down the blinds to create a more relaxed and, I hoped, confidential atmosphere.
There was a sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the door, and Southern’s pet lieutenant appeared, all strong jawline and bright-blue eyes. I hadn’t made any promises about him…
“Private Lutterall to see you, sir.”
“Show him in.”
I was expecting a poor specimen, an effeminate, hysterical creature—just goes to show how far I’d been tainted by the opinions of those around me. In fact, Alf Lutterall was tall and upright, his shoulders broad, his waist slim. His dark hair was neatly barbered, parted on the left. He was very young—a few adolescent spots on his face, even, and barely shaving. But around his eyes, with their downward-sloping eyebrows and shadowed orbits, there was a look of deep sadness. At his age he should be having the time of his life, but he was already consumed by grief.
“Come in, Alf. Sit down.”
He looked taken aback by the use of first names. “Sir.”
“I’m a civilian, Alf. You don’t need to call me sir. You can call me Dr. Mitchell if you like, or you can call me Mitch, which is what everyone else does. Now, please.” I indicated the chair. “Make yourself comfortable.”
He sat but didn’t relax. He was bolt upright, glancing around as if for spies.
I sat opposite him. “First of all, let me assure you that anything you say in this room is strictly confidential. I will not disclose it to anyone. Do you understand?”
“Sir.”
“No.”
“Sorry. Mitch.”
“That’s better. Secondly, as a doctor, I have encountered most variations on the human condition. And in my private life, I am as understanding as the next man.”
Alf shifted uneasily and looked down at his nails, gnawed to the quick.
“More so, perhaps. So let’s try to talk without concealment and pretense, shall we?”
He glanced up, a glimmer of hope in those sad brown eyes.
“Shall I ask you some questions, Alf?”
He nodded and looked down again.
“I understand you have trouble sleeping.”
He nodded.
“And you’re prone to fits of crying.”
He hung his head.
“Any idea why that might be?”
He shrugged.
“How’s your appetite?”
Nothing.
“Are your bowel movements regular?”
This, at least, made him look up, but he did not respond.
“Alf, if we’re going to get anywhere with this consultation…”
“I loved him, you know.” He looked me in the eye for a few seconds, and then down at his fingers again.
“I see.” I waited in silence, remembering that I was supposed to be a psychiatrist rather than a hospital doctor treating a stomach disorder.
“Do you understand? I loved him.” Now he looked straight at me, defiance all over his face.
“Yes, Alf. I understand. I have been in love too.”
“And he loved me. We…loved…” And then, before he could go on, the tears bega
n—tears that he could not control, shooting out of his eyes like raindrops. I know that psychiatrists are supposed to remain dispassionate, and I had promised Frank that I wouldn’t meddle, but I only had one short consultation with Alf Lutterall, and if we were going to get anywhere I needed him to trust me. I crouched down beside his chair and put an arm around his shoulders.
“It’s all right,” I said. “We’re going to make this better.”
“You can’t.”
“I’ll try. And if it’s any help, I know how it feels to love a man.” That stopped the tears, at least.
“You do?”
I passed him a handkerchief. “I do. I’m like you.”
“Oh.” He blew noisily, and wiped his eyes. “Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“Do they know?”
“Dr. Southern does. Not those other jerks.”
Alf’s eyes widened. “You mean…”
“Captain Haymon. What an asshole.”
For a moment his jaw hung open and then, at last, he laughed. “You can’t say that!”
“Quite an attractive asshole, admittedly. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he was one of those queers that can’t stand anyone else having any fun because he’s so fucking miserable himself.”
“Oh my God.” Alf rubbed his face, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was awake. “Do you mean I can really talk to you? I mean, you… you actually…”
“Yes. Whatever you’re trying to say, the answer is yes.” I resumed my seat. “I’m on your side, but I don’t have a great deal of time. They want me to tell them that you’re a hopeless lunatic and you should be sent back home to some kind of asylum. You’re not, are you?”
“No. I’m perfectly sane.”
“So tell me everything you can, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“I was in love with Ned. And he was in love with me. Nobody believes me.”
“Why not? You were both young, and by all accounts Ned was a good-looking guy.”
“He was.” Alf stared at the ceiling, as if searching for Ned in heaven. “Oh God, he was beautiful. And from the moment we met, we knew.”
“That’s how it happens sometimes.”
“There was nobody else, just the two of us. I suppose everyone else could see, and they hated it. We didn’t care. We were careful— you can get thrown into prison if you get caught, though if they threw all the queers in prison there would be nobody left to man the garrison.”
“Are they all at it?”
“Plenty of them are. All ranks.”
Another excellent reason to stick around in Valetta. “Go on.”
“We were planning to leave the army together. Go back to England. Or maybe somewhere else where we could be free. Canada. America.”
“America isn’t quite the land of the free you might think. Not for men like us.”
“Just somewhere we wouldn’t be bothered. A farm in the middle of nowhere. We could both work hard. We weren’t afraid of anything, as long as we had each other.” He sighed and looked back at his ragged nails. “But they wouldn’t allow it.”
“What do you mean?”
“They had to stop us.”
“They tried to separate you?”
“No.” He sounded like a sulky child. “You know what I mean. They’ve told you. That’s why they think I’m mad.”
“Tell me.”
“They killed him.”
“I see.”
“And now you think the same as the rest of them. You think I’m making it up, because I can’t accept the fact that Ned committed suicide. Go on. Tell me I’m a loony.”
“I don’t think that at all.”
“You don’t?”
“But how can you be so sure?”
Alf almost shouted. “Because Ned would never kill himself! He would never do that to me!”
“You’re very certain of that.”
“I told you. We loved each other.”
“And did you know absolutely everything about him? Are you sure there weren’t any secrets?”
“I’m sure.”
“We all have secrets.” I thought of the mountain of lies I’d told Vince.
“Not Ned.”
“Let’s assume, then, that this wasn’t suicide. How do you explain the note that he left?”
“I never saw it. I don’t believe it exists.” “He didn’t write anything to you?”
“No.”
“And he didn’t say anything in the days before his death that might lead you to believe he was planning to take his own life.”
“Of course not.”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it, Alf. I’m trying to get to the truth. For your sake, and for Ned’s.”
“He was happy. You have to believe me. He was looking forward to the future. We were in love, but that wasn’t all he had to live for. He had his family, his friends. I mean, his sister had been to visit— he absolutely adored her, they were very close, and he’d even told her about me. About us. He was so happy because she understood. She was pleased for us.”
“What was her name?”
“Patricia. Pat, he called her. Pat Porter.”
“Do you have an address for her?”
“Yes. I’ve written a few times, but I’ve never received a reply.”
“Was she married? Has she moved, changed her name?”
“I don’t think so. Ned didn’t mention it.”
“A lot can happen in two years.”
“I know.” His eyes were full of tears again.
“What was she like?”
“I only met her once, very briefly. She was nice. Quiet. Not like Ned at all—he was always laughing and joking. Pat was more like me, I suppose. Shy. She didn’t draw attention to herself. Dressed very plain. Glasses. I liked her.”
“Older or younger than Ned?”
“Older. She was the one who stayed at home and looked after their mother when she was ill, and after she died she had to stay and look after the father. Ned felt bad about that—but what could he do? He’d joined the army when he was eighteen, and he’d been travelling all over the world.”
“Did she bear a grudge?”
“I don’t think so. She loved him.”
“And when did this visit take place?”
“Just before Ned died.”
“Was she here when it happened?”
“No. She left a day or two before. He saw her off on the boat. It’s all a bit of a blur. I suppose it’s all in the records somewhere.” “Was the father still alive?”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
“How would I know? I’ve heard nothing from anyone. It’s like I don’t exist. I was the most important person in Ned’s life, but I’ve just been…forgotten.”
Alf was descending into self pity, and it was time to jolt him out of it. “Was Ned being blackmailed?”
“No! That is a lie!”
“How do you know?”
“He would have told me. He told me everything.”
“You put a great deal of trust in your Ned.”
“I told you. I loved him.”
“Love can be quite blind sometimes.”
“If Ned was in trouble, he would have told me, no matter what it was.”
“Even if he’d done something he was ashamed of?”
“What do you mean?”
“We all make mistakes, Alf. I’ve made plenty myself. Who’s to say that Ned hadn’t done something he regretted?”
“What are you hinting at?”
“Maybe he was involved in some kind of criminal activity. Or, who knows, he met someone else.” Alf half rose, but I motioned him back into his chair. “Calm down, Alf. I’m just exploring the possibilities. Was there anything that made you think that Ned was keeping secrets from you?”
“No.”
“If you won’t cooperate, I can’t help you. I know you loved him. I accept that he was a wonderful man. But nobody is perfect. People get int
o trouble. They hide things.”
“I didn’t know about anything, and I believe that Ned would have told me if he was worried. I don’t think he was being blackmailed. That was a story put around to explain his death. And I don’t believe he committed suicide.” He was calm now, speaking without emotion.
“There was a note,” I said.
“It must have been a forgery. I never saw it. They said it was addressed to Captain Haymon. Of all the people in the world, he was the very last person Ned would write a suicide note to. He hated him. We all do.”
“Very well then,” I said. “If it was not suicide, what was it?”
“Murder.”
The word was out at last. I couldn’t help feeling excited. Wasn’t this what I’d been hoping for ever since I arrived in the islands? My very own murder mystery?
“And who would want to kill Ned? Who could possibly have a motive? Did he have enemies?”
“No.” He thought for a while, and added, “None that I knew of, anyway.”
“But if you believe that Ned wasn’t keeping secrets, and that nobody had any reason to kill him, then we are left with the only plausible explanations—suicide, or a simple accident. Is it possible that he simply fell off the cliff?”
“No. He was careful.”
“Could he have been robbed? Did he carry money?”
“Money!” Alf laughed. “Soldiers don’t have enough money to make them worth robbing, let alone to make them worth pushing over a cliff. If he had the price of a pint in his pocket he considered himself rich. We all do.”
“How many people knew about you and Ned?”
“A few. There’s a lot of gossip in the army.”
“Was there any evidence, apart from gossip?”
“We were sensible. We didn’t do anything in public.”
“Were there photographs?”
“One or two. Look.” He pulled a wallet out of his pocket—a small black-and-white image of two shirtless soldiers squinting into the sun, arms around each other’s shoulders. The sort of thing that millions of men carry around, a memento of a buddy. “That’s all.”
