The Sun Goes Down

by James Lear

  I, however, was still in the dark—a somewhat lust-fuddled dark at that—but I had my suspicions and was prepared to act on them.

  I emptied the bag.

  A pair of heavy diamond and sapphire earrings tumbled out with a crash.

  “Bingo,” said Bill. “That solves that mystery.”

  “But why? Why would he steal them?”

  “I dunno. Perhaps he’s a drag queen.”

  “Local currency. English currency—phew! Quite a nice little haul. About a hundred pounds. And—here we are. Forty U.S. dollars. Just the amount that went missing from my wallet.”

  “Fucking tea leaf. Want me to call the cops?”

  “Definitely not. We can deal with Henry Jessop.”

  “Oh yeah?” Bill looked a little too interested.

  “Not like that. At least, not yet. Now, what’s this?”

  A bundle of letters on pink notepaper, tied with a ribbon. Six in all, no envelopes. Addressed to “Fancy” in a loose, flowing hand, blue ink. Signed, “your ever-loving Claire”; “yours forever, Claire”; “adoringly, Claire”; “heartbroken, Claire”; “in anger, Claire” and, finally, just “Claire.” It was easy to read in these letters the brief and predictable arc of an affair, passion leading to infatuation, disappointment, fury and resignation. She made assignations that were broken. She chided, she coaxed, she blamed. There was nothing compromising other than the shame of a woman putting herself at the mercy of a man. But where had the letters come from? To whom were they addressed? And why did Henry Jessop steal them?

  All that was left was another letter, this one in a plain envelope bearing an English stamp. It was addressed to Miss Patricia Porter, at her home address in England, and the postmark was eighteen months ago. It had been neatly opened with a paperknife.

  Patricia Porter—Ned’s sister. Now, who on earth would have a letter addressed to Patricia Porter? And why had it been stolen?

  Surely the only people on the islands who might have written to Pat were her brother, Ned, and his grieving lover, Alf. I looked at the date again: it was after Ned’s death. It must have been from Alf. He’d told me he’d written to her after Ned’s death, trying to find out if she knew anything. How had the letter come all the way back here? Had it, perhaps, been returned to sender, and then stolen from Alf’s barracks? Why? The answer must be here. My “click” moment was coming. My hypothesis was forming.

  With sweating fingers, I pulled the letter out.

  Two sheets of paper, covered in neat handwriting. An educated hand—a feminine hand, I guessed at first sight, and a glance at the signature confirmed it.

  “Yours sincerely, Alice Butterworth.”

  Alice Butterworth? Who the hell was Alice Butterworth, and why was she entering the stage so late in the drama? What had she written to Pat Porter, and how in God’s name had the letter come back here to Gozo? Had Pat herself returned?

  8a Chicheley Street

  London SW

  Dear Miss Porter,

  This is the fourth time I have written to you since your poor father died, on the advice of his solicitors, Messrs Abelforth. As I have not yet received a reply, I will now be placing the matter in their hands, and you will be hearing from them shortly. They have given me to understand that if you do not send me the money that is owed me, I will be within my rights to employ bailiffs to destrain goods to the value of that sum, with all costs borne by your father’s estate.

  As I have mentioned before, I have a letter from your father in which he promised me a modest bequest in recognition of the services I rendered him in the last five years of his life—services that perhaps would have been more properly rendered by a dutiful daughter, but I need scarcely remind you that you were unable or unwilling to perform them. The sum can mean so little to you, particularly now as I understand you have inherited the entire estate after the tragic death of your poor brother, so shortly after you had visited him in Malta. But it would mean a great deal to me.

  Your father gave me to understand that the terms of the bequest were made explicit in his will, but as no will has come to light, I am entirely dependent on you, as next of kin and now sole heir, to honour his wishes. I hesitate to press the claims of friendship, as they clearly mean nothing to you, but I would remind you that I did all I could to help you and your young man during your father’s ill health, and to shield you from the worst of his disapproval and anger. He was terribly distressed that the two of you ran off as you did just at the time when he needed you most. You were present at the death, but that’s about all you managed. It was I, you will remember, who took care of him, who organised the funeral. I did not think it right to remind you on that sad day of your financial obligations towards me, trusting—wrongly, as it turned out—in your good nature.

  Messrs Abelforth will be in contact soon, and if you are no longer receiving letters at this address, they assure me that they will be able to find you.

  Yours sincerely,

  Alice Butterworth.

  A letter that posed more questions than it answered. My little house of cards toppled under the weight of supposition. But there was one more item in Henry Jessop’s swag bag. A rectangle of card, ripped along one edge.

  I turned it over. A photograph. A naked man, the head missing, but the body gloriously, fully intact.

  My head was spinning. I felt drunk. Bill watched me with concern. “You all right, Mitch? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “A ghost. Yes. I think that’s exactly what I have seen.”

  “What are you on about?”

  “Every single person on this island has been lying to me,” I said. “With one exception.”

  “Yeah. Me.”

  “Exactly. Now I need those phone books, and I need to send some telegrams. Can you make that happen?”

  “That’s what I’m here for, sir,” said Bill. He kissed me on the back of the neck, his stubbly chin connecting directly with some nerve center in my brain that controlled my dick, then bounded downstairs.

  I had my hypothesis. Now I needed to test it.

  A couple hours later I was in the lobby of the Continental Hotel playing the bluff American holidaymaker for all I was worth.

  “Hey! Jessops! How are you doing?”

  They tried to get past me, but I was not so easily put off.

  “Please join me for cocktails this evening. I’ve decided to go home tomorrow—urgent business back in London, you understand, lives to save—and I really can’t leave without saying a proper goodbye to all my new friends.”

  “I’m afraid we will not be—”

  “Of course, of course, you don’t drink. I’ll make sure there’s something suitable. Did you try the lemonade? It’s sensational. And of course you must bring Henry. What a nice kid, you should be really proud of him. Say, where is Henry? I haven’t seen him for a while. You okay, Ma’am? You look a little pale. You should sit down. Hey! Ralph! Glass of water for Mrs. Jessop! You’ll be here at eight, won’t you folks? Don’t want to have to send out a search party!”

  That was enough to warn them. “Thank you,” said Mr. Jessop, through bloodless lips. His wife looked quite blue. I moved on.

  “Ah, Tilly! Glad I caught you. Could you prepare my bill? I’m checking out in the morning.”

  “What? Oh, Mitch, no! Why ever are you leaving us? I do hope it’s not because of what I said the other day. I thought we’d straightened all that out.”

  “Not at all. If it was up to me I’d stay here all summer. But I’m afraid duty calls.”

  “Really? What’s so important that it can tear you away from us?”

  “A case I’m involved in is about to reach an unexpected crisis.”

  “I see. Well, of course, if it’s a matter of life and death…”

  “It is. Very much so.”

  “I do hope you’ll be back, though.”

  “Definitely. I love it here, and I’ve made some great friends. I’ll come back to the Continental as long as you�
�re here to welcome me.”

  “In that case,” she said, with her loveliest movie-star smile, “I look forward to many more happy summers together, Mitch. You’re one of the family now.”

  “Cocktails at eight, yes? For everyone. Make sure Martin comes. Add it to my bill. Oh, excuse me, Tilly. There’s Claire. You know how busy she gets in the evenings. I wouldn’t want to miss her.”

  We exchanged an amused glance, both of us well aware of the nature of La Sutherland’s social engagements, and I moved on.

  “Claire! Claire! A word!”

  “Why, Mitch. How lovely to see you.” She looked over my shoulder at a young, handsome man who was waiting at the door. “Have a lovely evening. Toodle-oo!”

  I lowered my voice. “Want your earrings back?”

  “What?”

  “And your letters?”

  “Letters? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Then why are you whispering?”

  “Well, really.”

  “Cocktails, here, eight o’clock. Bring your handsome young friend if you wish, although you might not want him to hear what I’m going to say.”

  She strutted off, arms extended, bracelets clattering, “Marco, darling!” But she looked over her shoulder on the way out and gave me a businesslike nod.

  All I had to do now was wait. I had already invited the Captain by telephone, and Bill had his instructions: he was to meet me at the Continental, with whatever information he had been able to collect from the Victoria barracks, at 7:45 p.m. And there was one more important delivery he would make, if the relevant permissions and transportation were forthcoming.

  Alf Lutterall.

  I took a seat in the lounge with a good view of the lobby, ordered tea and read a book. There was activity all around me—boats speeding across the straits from Valetta, motorbikes and cars plying the island streets, people coming to my party or perhaps getting as far away as possible—and in the air, through the wires, phone calls and cables spanning the continents.

  Captain Hathaway arrived first, dressed in his smartest blue blazer and white linen pants, his cap firmly on his head.

  “Here I am, reporting for duty.”

  “Do you have what I asked for?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Good. Take a seat at the table. Drinks will be served when the others arrive. Forgive me for not being more sociable. I have to keep an eye on things.”

  “Understood, old boy.” The Captain did as he was told, fiddling nervously with his buttons. He knew all too well that the crimes he had committed could land him in a prison cell for the rest of his days. He was taking a big risk.

  Between paragraphs of Christie I surveyed the lobby. Nothing untoward happened. Tilly was behind the desk, ordering paperwork, speaking to the staff. Stella the housekeeper came in, had a word with Tilly then returned to the kitchen. A couple of other guests drifted through, asking about dinner.

  Time passed slowly.

  Bill appeared at the door, saluted me and left. That told me what I needed to know. All that was left was to wait for the other guests at my cocktail party.

  Claire sashayed into the lobby, high heels ringing out on the stone floor. She’d certainly dressed the part—an elegant, bright-blue cocktail frock, liberally sequined; jewels at her ears, throat and wrists; hair and makeup the full theatrical mask. She was first and always an actress—good at dissembling. If there were revelations or accusations, she would take them without blinking, sure of her lines.

  “Mitch, darling.” She bent down and kissed the air around my face. “Are there drinks? I was promised drinks.”

  “Coming right up. Tilly? Tilly!”

  I called across the lobby, but Tilly was not there. Instead, Martin came bustling out from the kitchen. “Yes, yes, everything’s ready. Ralph? Set up over there, please, on the big table in the lounge. That’s it. I’ve made big jugs of Tom Collins. That’ll do, won’t it? Nice and cold on a warm evening. Phew!” He mopped his brow which was wet with sweat, his blond hair sticking darkly to the skin. “I’m boiling! And there’s lemonade for the non-drinkers. Come on, Ralph! Get pouring! Miss Sutherland.” He bowed elegantly. “May I offer you a cocktail?”

  “You may,” said Claire, extending an encrusted hand, which Martin kissed. He too was playing a part, in his open-necked white shirt, spiffy ascot and canvas shoes. Only the sweat gave the game away.

  “Where is Mrs. Dear?” I asked. “I specifically wanted to thank her for her hospitality during my stay.”

  “She’s just coming, Mitch,” said Martin. “Finishing off a few things in the kitchen with Stella. Just some canapés, you know. Fiddly little things, but she likes ‘em.”

  “Ah,” I said, “here come the Jessops. The full set! I’m so pleased.” I walked towards father, mother and son with arms extended in greeting. They froze, as if all three of them might bolt for the door. “Come and have a drink. Three lemonades, I suppose? Sure I can’t tempt you to something harder?”

  Henry was ashen, his eyes bloodshot as if he had been crying. If ever a man needed a drink it was him, but he meekly accepted lemonade and took a seat. His parents posted themselves on either side, like guards.

  “Very good. Once Tilly joins us, we’re all here. All my lovely Gozo friends,” I said, my voice dripping sincerity. “At least, all those who are able to join us.” I paused; nobody would meet my eye. “Those who haven’t, you know, died.”

  The silence was broken by Claire’s carrying theatrical voice. “Does anyone have a light? I appear to have left mine in my other purse.”

  Martin was quick to oblige with matches. His hands were shaking, and the flame flickered as it danced around the end of Claire’s cigarette.

  She took a long drag. “That’s better. Lovely drinks, by the way. So sorry we’re losing you, Mitch, just as we were all getting so cozy together.”

  “I know, I know. But duty calls. Lives to save, you know.”

  “Now, does everyone have what they need?” asked Martin, bustling around, handing drinks, straightening cushions. “Because if you don’t mind, I really need to get on with arrangements for dinner.”

  “Sit down, Martin. I’m sure Ralph and Stella can manage between them.”

  “Oh, but I’d better go and check in the kitchen…”

  “Tilly is taking care of all that, isn’t she? Hope she hurries up with those canapés. I’m starving. I can’t wait to see what she’s come up with.”

  “Shall I go and see?” Martin started for the door.

  “No.” I blocked his path. “Please, Martin. For once, you don’t have to be the genial host. You can just be one of us for half an hour.” He frowned. “As a special favor to me. I would be really most obliged.”

  He perched on a stool, but looked ready to bolt at any moment. He wouldn’t get far. Guards were posted.

  “Now that we’re all here,” I said, standing with my hands behind my back, “I wanted to tell you about something very strange that happened to me while I was here. I didn’t mention it at the time because I didn’t want to upset anyone, but now I’m leaving…”

  “Aren’t we waiting for Mrs. Dear?” said Mr. Jessop, in his most schoolmasterish voice. “I thought she was joining us.”

  “I have a feeling Mrs. Dear is otherwise occupied just now,” I said. “Let’s not wait. If I need her, I’m sure someone can go and fetch her. No, Martin. Not you. Please sit down. Refill your glass. Come on, you like a drink, don’t you?”

  “Oh well, if you insist.” Martin gulped down a second Tom Collins. That seemed to calm him.

  I paced around the room, keeping an eye on all of my scattered audience. Everyone was engaged in some sort of activity—fiddling with buttons, biting nails, tapping the ash off a cigarette—that allowed them not to look at me.

  “It happened in Valetta, of all places. I suppose I should have been more careful—it’s a port, after all, and ports are always dangerous places. All sorts of riffraff coming and going. Anyway, to cut a
long story short, someone whacked me over the head, knocked me out.”

  “Oh, Mitch, how frightful for you,” said Claire. “A blow to the head is terribly dangerous. But of course you’re a doctor, you’d know that…” She ran out of steam and took a drink.

  “Are you quite well now, Dr. Mitchell?” This from Mrs. Jessop, sitting with her knees clamped together, handbag in her lap.

  “Absolutely fine, thank you ma’am.”

  “I suppose you were robbed.”

  “Funnily enough, no. Not there, at least.”

  “You mean…oh.”

  “Oh indeed. As we all know, don’t we, someone has been helping themselves rather too freely to the contents of other people’s rooms. I must say, I was shocked that this sort of thing went on at the Continental, Martin. Burglary.”

  “Awfully sorry,” said Martin. “Got the local coppers onto it, but you know what they’re like. Pretty useless bunch.”

  “Aren’t they just.”

  “I say,” he went on, “did you tell them about that biff to the head? Can’t have that. Bad for business. Gives the whole country a bad reputation.”

  “I didn’t go to the police, no,” I said. “As you say, Martin, they’re not much use.”

  “Bad show. No harm done, though.”

  “In the event, you see, I didn’t need the police. I worked this one out for myself.”

  Silence in the lounge. A few other guests passed through the lobby, looked in and moved on. Stella came up with a plate of olives and cheese—that stinky local stuff that Bill had such a taste for.

  “Is Mrs. Dear joining us, Stella?” I asked.

  “I thought she was up here with you, sir.”

  Martin’s knuckles were white as he gripped his drink; any more pressure and the glass would shatter.