A Sticky End (29 page)

The blood.

The mouthwash.

The death certificate.

The will…

And this time, there was no doubt at all—I was coming. Bert too. He buried his face in my neck and fucked me with every ounce of that magnificent, hairy body, grunting and swearing as he emptied his balls into me—and I, carried on the wave of his pleasure, felt a boiling, burning eruption from the inside of my guts to my balls, through the length of my cock and out the end, the semen splattered and sprayed by our colliding stomachs.

He stopped finally, and we lay breathing heavily until he slipped out of me.

We did not speak.

I let him rest for a while—for an hour, maybe two, he slumbered beside me, as I lay wide awake, pressed against the wall by his huge, warm frame. And in that dark room, listening to the occasional rumble of the trains and the steady drone of Bert's snoring, my mind worked and worked without any conscious will on my part.

And when he awoke, at that darkest part of the night that precedes the first chilly gray light of dawn, his cock hard again, pressing into my thigh, a picture had formed in my mind. A picture so simple and strong that it had to be real and true.

I could not, yet, bear to analyze it—just as you dare not analyze a dream for fear that it will evaporate in the first conscious motion of the will.

So when Bert started moving his prick against me and murmured, in a voice thick with sleep, “You want it again?” I raised myself on all fours, pointed my sore ass in the air, and buried my face in the pillow. That was all the answer he needed.

I have been accused of an oversequential approach to narrative, a kind of plodding left-foot, right-foot way of recounting my adventures from crime to solution, from fuck to fuck. So the reader will excuse and, perhaps, applaud me if I skip forward some 16 hours from when Bert shot a third and final load into my ragged ass (this time with me straddling him as he lay on the floor) to eight o'clock that Tuesday evening.

 

We find ourselves in the drawing room of Mr. Henry Morgan's home in Wimbledon. A fire is burning in the grate, a tray of drinks has been prepared and left by Ivy the house-maid, and six men are sitting, with varying degrees of comfort, in a rough horseshoe of chairs that I have arranged around the room.

Belinda is doing the rounds of her guests, attending to
their needs, handing out drinks, distributing cushions, making small talk like the perfect hostess she is. She has a friendly word for all of them—for Sergeant Godley and Detective Sergeant Weston, who decline whiskey and sherry but are obliged to accept coffee from a beautiful Georgian silver coffee pot. For Walter Ross, the prosperous City solicitor, and Arthur Tippett, his meek, handsome young clerk, both dressed in their suits, both, apparently, grateful for a drink. For Hugh Trent, sitting with his feet a yard apart, a look of disgust and impatience on his face, his moustache bristling with indignation; he hadn't wanted to leave his sister's sickbed to be called out on “a wild goose chase in the middle of the night,” he's already told us more than once. For Jack McDermott, beautifully at ease, his legs crossed, making small talk with the men, flashing that dazzling smile at his hostess.

There is a knock at the door, and all conversation suddenly ceases, all eyes turn—but it's only the maid, carrying little Margaret, smiling and blushing in her nightgown. “She wouldn't settle until she'd said good night to all the gentlemen,” says the maid, curtsying. “I'm sorry, ma'am.”

Belinda makes light of it, and ushers her small daughter around to the guests. “Say good night to Sergeant Weston… Say good night to Mr. Tippett…” and so on. As she stops at each chair, the little girl stands on tiptoe to deliver a good-night kiss. When she comes to Hugh Trent, she gurgles with delight, remembering what great pals they were in a different house at another time. She might not know that it was just yesterday, or that the strange atmosphere in the house was one of death and suspicion—but she remembers the friendly, handsome man with the splendid whiskers, and as she reaches up to stroke his face he grasps her by the waist and lifts her effortlessly in the air with a “Wheee! Away we go, young lady!”

Little Margaret runs back to her mother, buries her face in her skirts, and giggles, delighted with the game. She
would like to play all night—but we have other business to attend to.

“Thank you, Ivy,” says Belinda. “I will put Margaret to bed. If you will excuse us, gentlemen.” The men stand or half stand as Belinda leads Margaret out of the room. The maid follows, and closes the door behind them.

The men are alone.

I clear my throat. “Gentlemen,” I say, and silence falls. I stand with my back to the door; they face me, six men in six chairs. There is a click and a rasping hiss as Trent lights a cigarette; he's been waiting for Belinda to leave the room before smoking.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice.”

“This had better be good, Mitchell,” says Trent, exhaling a cloud, throwing the spent match into the fire. “My sister is very ill. I should be with her.”

“I'm sure she'll be fine,” I say, in a way he doesn't much like, judging by the expression on his face. “The doctor should be with her by now.”

“Doctor? I didn't send for a doctor.”

“Nevertheless, the fact remains. Does it not, Detective Sergeant Weston?”

The handsome plainclothes officer nods and sips his coffee. Sergeant Godley looks from Trent to Weston, from Weston to Trent, trying to fathom the sudden air of hostility between them.

“Now, if everyone has everything he needs, I'll begin.”

“Fire away, Mitch,” says McDermott, his hands behind his head, the muscles of his chest stretching the fabric of his shirt. Arthur Tippett steals a glance; now, there's a luxury that clerk's wages can hardly afford. And yet, Tippett looks greedy.

“Please do, Mr. Mitchell,” says Walter Ross. “You have promised us the truth—or so your note said. I am sure I speak for us all when I say I am eager to hear it.”

And so I began my exposition of the case as I saw it—a performance in the grand tradition, suitably located in a handsome drawing room.

There was much murmuring, which I silenced with an uplifted hand, like a conductor before an overture.

“Three of you knew Frank Bartlett very well. Mr. Ross—you knew him for many years.”

“Twenty or more.”

“And as partners in the firm?”

“Since 1919. After the War.”

“And you would describe him, I suppose, as an honorable man?”

“Quite so. I admired him tremendously, until… Well… you know.”

“Until his death? Or before then?”

“I have always known of Frank's…preferences. I do not judge a man by such things. He fought for his country with great distinction, he was a brilliant lawyer and a valued colleague. From what I knew of his home life, he was a good husband. Those things are far more important to me than what a man does behind closed doors.”

“I wish more people thought like you, Mr. Ross. And yet, you were aware, I think, of certain irregularities in Bartlett's life?”

“Yes.”

“Would you care to tell us what those were?”

“No. I do not speak ill of the dead.”

“Then I will be obliged to. You knew that Bartlett was being blackmailed, that he was parting with large sums of money in order to pay off someone who threatened to make his private life public. Is that not so?”

“If you say so.”

“I do. And you were aware, were you not, that Bartlett had called on company money when his own finances would
not cover the sums in question.”

Ross sighed. “So I gathered.”

“And yet you did nothing to prevent this borrowing.”

“I knew that Frank would pay it back. The idea of him stealing was unthinkable.”

“And did he pay it back?”

“Yes.”

Tippett shifted uncomfortably in his seat and coughed quietly. Ross glared at him. “Very well! If we must drag his memory through the gutter! There were some recent sums that, at the time of his death, were still outstanding. But I will not suffer any suggestion that Frank intended to rob me. From anyone,” he added, looking pointedly toward Tippett, who blushed and stared at his feet.

“And then, Mr. Ross, there was the matter of the will.”

Ross said nothing.

“The will, Mr. Ross, of which you are an executor.”

“The will has not yet been read,” said Ross. “Until it is, I can say nothing about its contents.”

“All right. Once again you oblige me to speak. A few days before his death—a week or so—Frank Bartlett revised his will in order to leave a very substantial sum to Harry Morgan. Morgan, an employee of the London Imperial Bank, had been working on the Bartlett and Ross account for around eighteen months—almost exclusively for the last six months. During that time, Morgan and Bartlett had become close. Very close, in fact.”

“That is none of your business.”

I ignored Ross's interruption. “And, at the end, Bartlett felt so close to Morgan that, for whatever reason, he decided to leave him so much money that Morgan would be able to live comfortably without ever working again.”

“And in doing so, he ruins my sister!” barked Trent. I was wondering how long he would be able to remain silent. “The swine!”

“Thank you, Mr. Trent, for pointing that out so forcibly. By leaving that money to Morgan, Bartlett effectively disinherited his own wife. Of course, under the circumstances this has become a more pressing matter than Bartlett could ever know: presumably, he was not aware that he was about to die. Would you say, Mr. Ross, that he was of sound mind when he made the will?”

“Certainly, although I advised strongly against it, as a friend and as his lawyer.”

“But he was not insane, nor in despair, nor suicidal.”

“Not at all. If anything, he was happier than I've known him for many years.”

“Exactly. He changed his will in the full expectation of living another thirty, maybe forty years. Bartlett was a healthy man. He exercised regularly, he did not eat to excess, he drank and smoked in moderation. As a doctor, I would say that he had a good life expectancy. His wife, if she survived him, would have enough to live on for a few years. If she predeceased him, as she might well have—well, there were no children, no dependents, no heirs, were there? Bartlett's will was not designed to impoverish or disinherit anyone.”

“Then why the bloody hell did he do it?” said Trent, throwing the end of his cigarette into the fire. “What witch-craft had Morgan practiced on him?”

“They were in love.”

The words fell heavily into the room, thudding onto the carpet. Breaths were held. The fire crackled.

“Yes, gentlemen. We are not children. We know that Frank Bartlett was in love with Harry Morgan. And, perhaps, Morgan was in love with him.”

“Absolute rot!” This was Trent again. “The suggestion is obscene.”

I ignored this. “But Morgan was trying to end it between them. And every time he did so, Bartlett tried to bind him with another gift, another sum of money—the money that
he'd been borrowing from the firm, Mr. Ross. Finally, when it seemed that no amount of money would keep Morgan from doing what he believed was right, Bartlett made this final, extreme gesture. He made Morgan his heir. To all intents and purposes, he adopted him as a son—but more than a son. He hoped that Morgan would feel the full force of that bond between them, and would stop struggling. It was a gesture—a crazy gesture, I suppose. But lovers are often crazy.”

“Morgan forced his hand!”

“No, Trent. Morgan did nothing of the sort.”

“Do you not think, Mitchell, that Morgan may have been partly responsible?” said Ross. “I saw the way he treated Bartlett. They thought we saw nothing—but it was hard to hide. Tippett and I—well, we watched it all, didn't we?”

“Yes, Mr. Ross.”

“And we knew that things between them were not always happy.”

“And those times tended to coincide with Mr. Bartlett's heaviest borrowing,” said Tippett.

“Morgan was not blackmailing Bartlett. I'm sure of that now. I thought he was, but it doesn't make sense.”

“Poppycock,” said Trent. “It's the oldest trick in the book. Frank had been blackmailed before, and he'd paid up without a whimper. He was an easy mark.”

“Doubtless,” I said. “As you told me yourself, he'd been unfortunate enough to fall prey to an unscrupulous guardsman.”

“Yes,” blustered Trent, “and if I ever catch the bounder I'll horsewhip him.”