by James Lear
I paused a while to let the words sink in. Who would get there first? Captain Hathaway? The Jessops, father, mother or son? Claire? Martin?
“What the hell are you suggesting?” Martin, of course, as I knew it would be. The outraged husband. “Do you seriously believe that… no, it’s too ridiculous.”
“Believe what, Martin?”
“That Tilly is somehow involved in this?”
“Is that what I’m suggesting?”
“It bloody better not be. Nobody insults my wife like that. And anyway, how on earth could she be this Porter person? She’s nothing like her. You’re barking up the wrong tree, old chap.” He poured himself a long drink and sighed. “Just a load of nonsense from beginning to end.”
“Perhaps Tilly herself would like to comment on that?”
“Yes, Martin,” said Claire, in vindictive tones, “where exactly is Tilly?”
“She’s busy running the hotel if that’s quite all right with you. Which is what I should be doing, instead of sitting here listening to Mitch’s ridiculous fantasies.”
Martin got up, but I moved to block the door. “Not quite yet, Martin, if that’s all right. There’s just one more thing that I wanted to mention. While Patricia’s partner was lying low in Malta, he made one crucial mistake. He left a track.”
“What sort of track?” He tried to make it sound trivial, silly. “A footprint?”
“Better than that. A photograph.”
“Let’s see it, then.”
“Very well.” I produced the tattered photograph from my pocket. A headless man, the body naked, the cock visible and erect. I placed it on the table. Mrs. Jessop screamed. Her husband shielded her. Claire and Henry both leaned forward to have a better look. The Captain smiled.
“Anyone recognize him?”
Heads were shaken around the room. Henry began to say “It’s not…” but then stopped and blushed.
“No, Henry. It’s not Peter Allinson, the other clergyman in the story. Nor, indeed, is it our mysterious murdering priest. It’s someone that he met while he was on the island, after Pat had left, after the murder was committed, when he was lonely and remorseful, wondering if he’d done the right thing. He went to a bar one night and got drunk. One of the waiters made friends with him, and one thing led to another. They went off to a secret place together and made love.” I refrained from saying “fuck” only for the sake of Mrs. Jessop. “After it was over, the young waiter gave his new friend a keepsake—a photograph of himself. And the false priest, the murderer, the blackmailer’s accomplice, could never quite bring himself to throw it away. He had one scrap of decent feeling in him—and he couldn’t help wondering if life could have turned out better if he hadn’t come under the thumb of Patricia Porter. But she had him exactly where she wanted him.”
“She was blackmailing him too?” asked Claire.
“Precisely. He feared her, but he loved her as well, in the way that the very weak will always fear and love the very strong. Just for a moment, when Patricia had gone home and the killer was left alone, he thought about escaping her—running off with that waiter and starting again. But of course he didn’t. He was in too deep. But he kept the photograph to remind himself that he could be free if he chose.”
“And who is it?” asked Henry.
“The killer tried to conceal the identity of his lover by tearing off the top part of the picture—the face. He knew he was making himself vulnerable, but even then he couldn’t bear to throw the past away. Now, is there anyone here who can tell us who is in the photograph?”
The Captain sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “I can. That photograph is my handiwork.”
“Go on.”
“It’s Joseph Vella.”
“Joseph Vella,” I said. “Whose body was found at the foot of the very same cliffs, the temple smashed by repeated blows from a rock.”
“I don’t see what you’re getting at,” said Martin. “I know I’m not much in the brains department—I leave that to my wife—but I am completely baffled.”
“There’s one more piece of information that I think will help,” I said. “I need the answer to a very simple question.”
“Fire away,” said Martin. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“It’s not for you,” I said. “It’s for Henry.”
“What has my son got to do with—” blustered Mr. Jessop, but I interrupted.
“Henry—where did you find that photograph?”
All eyes turned to Henry, who blushed deeply, just as he had when I was fucking him. How much did his parents know about his activities on the island—with me, with Deacon Peter, and in the rooms of his fellow guests at the Continental? Were they all in it together, or was he a free agent? That didn’t matter right now. What mattered was that Henry held the one piece of information on which my entire hypothesis hung. If he’d stolen the photo from Captain Hathaway’s house, or found it among Claire Sutherland’s jewelry, I was in the shit.
It took everyone a while to realize that I had just identified the Continental Burglar. Henry knew that he was cornered, and had better make a clean breast of it.
“It was in Mr. Dear’s office.”
“What?” said Martin. “Absolute bloody rubbish. Anyway, what were you doing in the office? You had no right to go in there, you little thief.”
“Mr. Dear!” shouted Henry’s father. “How dare you!”
I held up a hand. “Quiet, please. Henry. Go on.”
“Must I?”
“You must. I think someone out there would be proud of you if you confessed.”
He nodded, swallowed and said “I was looking for money, or anything that I could sell. The desk drawer was unlocked. There was no cash, but I found that photo.”
“Go on.”
“It was in an envelope, underneath a load of paperwork and stuff.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, Mitchell,” said Martin, “but the boy is lying. I’ve never seen that photograph before in my life. What on earth would I be doing with a picture like that? I’m a married man.”
“Are you?”
“Of course I am. You all know my wife.”
“We know someone who has been introduced to us as Mrs. Dear. That’s not quite the same thing.”
“Does anyone else follow what he’s on about?”
“I think I get the gist,” said the Captain. “Go on, Mitch.”
“For the last few days, Henry has been helping himself to other people’s belongings.” I produced the sponge bag, to general astonishment. “Claire, your earrings. Forty U.S. dollars—they belong to me. You had only to ask, Henry, I’d have gladly given you the money. Some love letters—yours too, Claire. Be more careful with your private possessions in future.”
“You ghastly little sneak,” said Claire, glowering at Henry. “How dare you?”
“The rest is odds and ends of cash, and another letter. You really weren’t cut out to be a criminal, Henry. You wouldn’t have got very far on this lot.”
“But why, Henry?” This from Mrs. Jessop, who looked truly stricken. “Why?”
“I can’t tell you,” said the boy. “It’s not my secret.”
“There are altogether too many secrets on this island,” I said, “and two of them have led to death. It’s time for honesty. Henry was planning his escape.”
“Escape?” said his mother. “I don’t understand. From what?”
“From you, mother!” Henry burst out. “From all of this! From being treated like a child, like a prisoner, watched all the time.”
“It is for your own good,” said Mr. Jessop. “If we hadn’t removed you from England… Well, it’s too awful to contemplate.”
“But your plans didn’t work, Mr. Jessop,” I said. “Danger followed Henry to Gozo—by chance, I believe, but some would call it fate. The one person you most wanted to protect him from is also on the island. Henry saw him on the crossing. You didn’t recognize him, of course—you�
��d never met him, just heard about him from your son’s headmaster. A young seminarian who had been disciplined and dismissed. But Henry knew him, because he loved him. And as soon as he could get away, they met. Where was it, Henry? Across the bay, in the caves?”
“Yes.”
“And together they arranged their getaway. I don’t suppose it was easy to convince him, was it Henry? But you can be very persuasive when you try. You told him that you’d take care of everything. You’d raise the money for your passage off the island, and then—well, you’d both have to work. I wonder where you thought you’d go? Even if you sold Miss Sutherland’s jewelry and made her pay for the letters, you’d only get as far as Sicily, perhaps mainland Italy, if you could find a boat that would take you.”
“And if you think,” said Claire, mustering what dignity she could, “That I would stoop to paying you for those letters, you are very much mistaken. Why, the very idea of blackmail disgusts me. Do your worst! I regret nothing!”
“And yet,” I said, unwilling to let Claire claim all the moral high ground, “I presume you had paid for their return in the first place. Why else would you have a packet of compromising letters you yourself had written? Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask you who ‘Fancy’ is. That’s none of our business.”
Claire blushed, and for once seemed genuinely embarrassed.
“So, Henry, what was the plan? Where are you going?”
“Sicily to start with. We thought we might get work bringing in the grape harvest or something.”
“Oh Henry,” sobbed Mrs. Jessop. “Oh, my little boy.” Her husband put an arm around her. Any idea I may have entertained about the Jessops being international criminals, pimps or blackmailers evaporated. They were just holidaymakers, returning year after year to the same hotel, not because they particularly liked it, but because they could afford it.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I should have told you. But every time I tried to talk about it, you looked so upset, and Papa was so cross. But this is the truth.” He took a deep breath. “I love Peter, and Peter loves me. We want to be together.”
“But he’s a priest, son,” said Mr. Jessop, “and you’re a child.”
“He’s a deacon, actually,” said Henry, “but not for much longer. He decided yesterday that he’s leaving the church. And I am not a child. I’m a man. I must be allowed to make my own decisions.”
“I cannot stand by and let you condemn yourself.”
“You must, Papa. I know what’s right for me. I don’t want to end up like Ned Porter. I want the future that he never had.”
“And you shall have it, Henry. I imagine Peter is waiting for you right now, isn’t he?”
Henry looked at his watch. “I’m very late. He must think I’ve got cold feet or something.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll send someone up to the ferry port to reassure him. Is that where you were meeting?”
“How did you know?”
I tapped my temple. “Call it a lucky guess. But you’ll have to find some other way to pay for your tickets.”
Henry smiled for the first time all evening.
“This is all very well, Mitch,” said Claire, “and of course I’m pleased to have my possessions back. But what has this got to do with the photograph…or the death of Ned Porter?”
“We know that Henry stole the photo from Martin’s office.”
“I absolutely refute that,” said Martin.
“And the photograph is of Joseph Vella.”
“Bloody rubbish,” said Martin. “It’s actually me, when I was, you know, doing a spot of bodybuilding.”
“No,” I said. “It’s Joseph all right. I was familiar with his body.”
“Prove it.”
“Captain?”
The Captain produced a buff envelope from his blazer pocket. “This is the negative from which that print is taken,” he said. “The face is quite clearly visible. Joseph Vella modelled for me on many occasions. He was rather proud of that particular photograph.” He sighed. “I did several prints for him.”
“Useful in his line of work,” I said. “A business card, perhaps. Or, in this case, a reminder.”
“Reminder of what?” said Martin.
“That he would expose you if you didn’t pay up. That’s where the money’s been going, isn’t it? You’re no more of a gambler than I am. You’ve been paying Joseph Vella to keep his mouth shut about what happened one summer’s day two years ago, when you were drunk and remorseful and you let him take you up to his little hut on the top of the cliffs. You looked different then, of course. Dark hair. Your natural color, I wonder, or did you dye it? Was it a wig? And I suppose you wore glasses, or a false nose or something. You looked the part—a dark-haired young priest. The islands are full of them. Nobody else recognized you when you came back as Martin Dear, the blond hotelier. Different hair, different face. But Joseph remembered your body, and one day he spotted you out swimming across the bay, and he saw his opportunity.”
“Good God, Mitchell, you have a sick imagination.”
“Thank you, Martin. I shall take that as a compliment. Did Joseph send you the photograph straightaway? Did he get money out of you first, then use it to get more? Was he threatening to tell Tilly? How long did it go on? It must have been horrible—no wonder you’ve been drinking so much. And finally, you couldn’t stand it any more. There was no money left, and Joseph just wouldn’t give up. You couldn’t go to the police of course, so you took matters into your own hands. You’d done it before. When you’ve killed once, it’s so much easier to kill again.”
“You aren’t seriously suggesting that I… That it was me who…”
Whatever Martin was about to deny we would never find out. There was a crash as the hotel doors burst open, followed by a banshee wail and there, standing in the middle of the lobby’s marble floor was the Black Crow, her eyes wild, hair disheveled, a stream of hysterical Maltese screeching from her lips, and her hands covered in blood.
XIII
“WHAT IS SHE SAYING? FOR GOD’S SAKE, WHAT IS SHE SAYING?” hissed Claire. “One of you must understand Maltese.”
The Jessops, Martin Dear and I looked at each other and shrugged, but the Captain held up his hand. “Just a moment,” he said. “I’m far from fluent, but I’ve picked up a few words here and there.” He listened again. “There. Hear it? ‘May yet. May yet.’ She keeps saying it. ‘May yet.’”
“May yet what, for heaven’s sake?” said Claire.
“No, mejjet.” He spelled it out for us. “It means dead.”
“Who is dead?”
“Wait,” said the Captain. “I’m trying to figure it out. Alla, alla, that means God, God. And there’s mejjet again. The rest of it I can’t quite catch. Who is dead, dear?” He spoke loud and slowly, as one would speak to a child or an idiot. “Can you tell us?”
The old woman pointed one red, reeking hand towards Martin, shrieked a few further imprecations in Maltese and rushed from the room as suddenly as she had come. We all followed her, scrambling to get out of the door and down the steps to the harbor.
The skinny body wasn’t quite dead. Her head was bleeding from a massive gash that ran from above the left temple down to the corner of the eye and into the cheek: a blow from a large, blunt blade, I guessed, or a very hard piece of wood. She lay, drenched and almost drowned, her feet still in the water, her nails digging into the sand at the edge of the bay. Her neck was turned at an awkward angle, and seaweed clung to her mouth, obstructing her breathing. Her hair was plastered flat against her skull, and the black shirt and pants she was wearing were torn in places, clinging to her skinny body.
“My God,” said Claire, standing in a stage attitude of shock, “who is it?”
“Stand back everyone.” I knelt by the body, cleared the airways and used my handkerchief to staunch the wound. “Someone call an ambulance. She’s alive. We may yet save her.”
“But who is it?” repeated Claire, becoming increasingly hysteri
cal. “Who?”
“Here’s someone who can tell us.”
Bill came running down from the hotel, where he had been waiting for my signal, with Alf Lutterall in tow. I had been keeping them in reserve for what I hoped would be a dramatic identification scene in the Continental lounge, but Tilly had taken matters into her own hands. “Alf, step forward, please. Do you recognize this woman?”
It was getting dark now, but the lights along the promenade lit the white, blood-smeared face quite enough for identification.
“Yes,” said Alf, frowning. “It’s Pat. Patricia Porter. Ned’s sister.”
“My God,” said the Captain, “she was here all along?”
I stood. “Does nobody else recognize her?”
A tense silence, just the waters lapping, the seabirds calling eerily above the cliffs.
“Martin?”
Martin swayed and staggered on his feet, and just when it seemed that he would surely collapse, he bolted. Bill was on him in a flash, launching himself through the air to grab Martin by the legs. They fell together with a thump and a gasp onto the promenade.
“My God,” said Captain Hathaway, as the scales fell from his eyes at last. “It’s Tilly.”
“But…but…” Claire Sutherland was struggling to comprehend. “Her hair… Her face… And where are her breasts?”
